John Bradfield’s face grew grey at these words. His throat had become in a moment so dry, that the words he tried to utter in answer or comment would not come, but resolved themselves into a choking cough. Nobody noticed this, for the Graham-Shutes had their attention fully taken up with Marrable himself. So Alfred went on with a sentimental cheerfulness:
“Why, that young fellow was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, and no mistake. Let’s see, he must be three or four and twenty by this time. Wish I could come across him! If he’s anything like a chip of the old block, it would be a good day for me if I did. What d—d slippery nutcrackers these are of yours, John! Do you know what’s become of young Wryde, eh?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” answered John Bradfield, as, his patience worn out, he rose from the table. “As his father died in Australia, I should think your best chance of hearing of him would be to prosecute your inquiries over there.”
Alfred Marrable, who had by this time, not without a little difficulty, gained his feet, stared at his old friend and host with a sudden portentous gravity. His familiarity, his affectionateness were gone; in their place was the solemnity of outraged dignity. Supporting himself with one hand against the table, and nodding two or three times before he spoke, to prepare his friend for the awful change which had come over his sentiments, he said, in a spasmodic and tremulous voice:
“Mr. Bradfield, I beg your pardon. I repeat,” said he, with another dignified pause, “I repeat, I beg your pardon. If I had known, I should say, if I had been aware that my presence in Australia would be considered more desirable to you than my presence here, I would have gone there—I say, sir, I would have gone there, sooner than intrude here, where I am not wanted, where,” and he looked round at the Graham-Shutes, and felt a muddled surprise to note that they looked more amused than sympathetic, “where it seems I am not wanted. It is not too late, while a railway line runs between here and London, to repair my er—er—error.” Drawing himself up to his full height, Mr. Marrable concluded, “I wish you all, gentlemen”—here he paused a little, for effect with disastrous results—“I wish you all a ver—happy—new—year.”
Unfortunately for the dignity of his exit, Alfred Marrable forgot that he had John Bradfield’s clothes on. And the appearance of his portly figure, with the arms drawn back by the tight fit of his coat, and a series of ridges between the shoulders not intended by the tailor, was more provocative of laughter than of indignant sorrow.
As the unlucky Marrable left the room, an expression of hope appeared on John Bradfield’s face which became one of intense relief when, following his old chum into the hall, he saw that the latter was sincere in his intention of immediately leaving the house in which he chose to think he had been insulted. Taking his overcoat, a sadly threadbare garment, from the peg on which John Bradfield himself had hung it, Alfred buttoned himself up in it with great dignity, and proceeding down the inner and the outer hall with slow steps, perhaps willing to be called back, he fumbled at the handle of the front door, and finally let himself out into the cold night.
Just as Mr. Bradfield was congratulating himself upon having got rid of a dangerous and untrustworthy person, and wondering whether he should be troubled with him again, a voice close to his shoulder disturbed his reflections.
It was that of his cousin, Graham-Shute, who had witnessed the abrupt departure of the humble friend, and who had been struck by the fact that Alfred Marrable, confused as he was, had conceived a just opinion of the value of his old friend’s welcome.