Harry Clayton was reading, and Lionel Redgrave—a tall, well-made young fellow—was lolling back in his chair, smoking with all his might.
Three or four times over the latter impatiently shifted his position, going through the performance of one who is terribly bored; but his fidgeting attracted no attention till, in a bluff loud voice, he exclaimed—
“My dear Harry, what a serious old cad you are! Throw away those books.”
“My dear Li, what a groomy individual you do make yourself! Throw that cigar away, and let’s have a quiet evening’s reading.”
“Likely! I shall just have another cigar, and then we’ll go and see something. Open that window—there’s a good fellow,” and he leaned back in the lounge of their handsomely furnished room.
Harry rose, opened the low window, admitting the loud rattle of the traffic, and then returned to his seat, which he drew nearer to his companion.
“Look here,” he said; but there was no reply; the young man only lay back with half-closed eyes, lit a fresh cigar, and luxuriously watched the blue rings of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.
“Look here, Lionel,” said Harry again, after a pause; this time eliciting for response, the one word—
“Bother!”
“I really cannot stand this sort of thing any longer,” said Harry, without noticing the other’s coolness. “You know why I am here—you know why your father wished me to be with you; and really I cannot consent to go on, week after week, in this unsatisfactory manner.”