"Elgar, you'd better come, after all," he said, with a grim smile. "I want to have some talk with you. Let us pay our shot, and walk on to the station."
"What kind of talk, Mallard?"
"Various. Get whatever you have to carry; I'll see to the bill."
"But how can I go on without a shirt?"
"I have shirts in abundance. A truce to your obstacles. March!"
And before very long they were side by side in the vehicle, speeding along the level road towards Castellammare and the mountains. This exertion of native energy had been beneficial to Mallard's temper; he talked almost genially. Elgar, too, had subdued his restiveness, and began to look forward with pleasure to the expedition.
"I only wish this wind would fall!" he exclaimed. "It's cold, and I hate a wind of any kind."
"Hate a wind? You're effeminate; you're a boulevardier. It would do you good to be pitched in a gale about the coast of Skye. A fellow of your temperament has no business in these relaxing latitudes. You want tonics."
"Too true, old man. I know myself at least as well as you know me."
"Then what a contemptible creature you must be! If a man knows his weakness, he is inexcusable for not overcoming it."