"Oh, it's you," said Otterburn, in an ill-tempered tone.
"Yes! forgive me, but I couldn't help overhearing the last few words you spoke. I--I hope you've been successful in your wooing."
"I don't know what you mean," retorted Angus sulkily, stretching his long legs out, and thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets.
"I beg your pardon," replied Eustace, ceremoniously. "I have no wish to force your confidence."
The Master made no reply, but glared savagely at his boots, while Eustace, taking in the situation at a glance, stood silently beside him, not without a secret gratification that Otterburn had been punished for his base desertion of friendship for love. This was so like Gartney, whose colossal egotism saw in the successes or failures of others nothing but what tended to his own self-glorification.
"Gartney," said Otterburn, suddenly looking up, "I'm deadly sick of this place."
"Everyone seems to be of your opinion," answered Eustace, complacently; "the Erringtons go to-day, and Mrs. Trubbles to-morrow--of course la Belle Victoria accompanies them--aren't you inconsolable?"
This was cruel of Eustace, and he knew it.
"No, I'm not," retorted Angus, doughtily, "she's not the only girl in the world. I wish to heaven you'd talk sense. Tell me when are we going to start?"
"When you like."