“That I won’t,” cried Glyn, “and you ought to be ashamed to ask me to.”
“Ashamed?” cried Singh, flushing. “Ashamed to put full trust in you?”
“No; but you ought to be ashamed not to be able to trust yourself. It’s like saying to me, ‘I am such a weak-minded noodle that I’ve no confidence in myself.’”
“Oh,” cried Singh passionately, “there never was such a disagreeable fellow as you are. You are always bullying me about something, and you make me feel sometimes as if I quite hate you.”
“Don’t believe you,” said Glyn, with a half-laugh.
“Well, you may then, for it’s true.” Then, changing his tone and drawing himself up, Singh continued, “Why, it’s like telling me that I am a liar. How dare you, sir! Please have the goodness to remember who I am!”
“Don’t want any remembrance for that,” said Glyn coolly. “Why, who are you? My schoolfellow in the same class.”
“I am the Maharajah of Dour, sir,” said the boy haughtily.
“Not while you are here. You’re only a schoolboy like myself, learning to be an English gentleman.”
“Do you want me to strike you?” cried Singh fiercely.