Sep opened it almost reverently, and found that it contained ten sovereigns.
“Her savings for half a year at least,” explained Rees. “The day she came here she left it on the desk, sliding it under a piece of blotting paper, because she knew I was badly off. You see I have not touched it,” he added, magnanimously.
“So I should think,” said Sep, laconically. “Are you sure, though, Rees, whether she left it at the beginning or the end of her visit—on her coming in or on her going away?”
“What do you mean?” asked Rees sharply.
“Why, that perhaps she left it for the old Rees, whom she had known, and would not have left it for the new Rees whom she had to learn to know.”
Limp and undecided in action, Sep was shrewd of thought and could be plain of speech. Rees received his suggestion very haughtily, and the two men were on the verge of a quarrel when the sound of the turn of a latch-key in the front door caused them instantly to drop their voices. For mistrust of their elder was the bond on which the friendship between the two younger men now chiefly rested.
Amos Goodhare entered in brisk and jaunty fashion. He alone of the three seemed to have found their alternately riotous and risky life perfectly agreeable to his tastes and constitution. After having grown old in the pursuit of learning, he was now growing young again at the fountain of pleasure. If he had lost something in dignity, he had gained in distinction, and the man on whom all had looked as an intellectual marvel seemed now remarkable rather for his well-cut clothes and the easy condescension of his manner.
“Well, boys,” was his greeting, “you don’t seem to understand how to make Christmas merry. I’ve come to show you how it can be made useful.”
“By taking a lesson at Drury Lane, perhaps, and buttering the pavement outside rich old gentlemen’s doors,” suggested Rees ironically.
Amos gave the young man a glance of no particular warmth and said: