“Why not?” said the other, coolly emitting a puff of smoke.
“Why not? Because I feel as if I were robbing him. A month gone to-day, and what have we done?”
“Done! Seen no end of life, my boy—studied from nature. What more would you have?”
“Life!” exclaimed Harry, bitterly; “do you call that wretchedly artificial existence that we have seen by gaslight, life? If I were a moralist, I should call it the well-lighted ante-chamber of the pit; but I won’t preach.”
“No, don’t, that’s a good fellow. Daresay you’re quite right, but it’s a very pleasant way of getting down to the pit all the same. But I say, Harry, don’t bother; you’ve been very jolly so far. Let’s go on just the same.”
“And your father?”
“Bless his old heart! what about him? Sent me a cheque, this morning—extra, you know—and hoped we get on well together. He’s got a first-rate opinion of you. By the way, write and acknowledge the cheque, and say we get on first-rate.”
“But, Redgrave, pray be serious.”
“So I am,” exclaimed the other, pettishly, as he dashed his cigar out of the window, and suddenly rose to a sitting posture. “Now, look here, Clayton. I like having you with me, ’pon my soul, I do; you act like ballast to me, you do indeed. I’m given to carrying too much sail, and if it was not for you, I should be like my little yacht, the Kittiwake, in a squall, and on my beam ends in no time.”
Harry tapped the table impatiently with his fingers.