“Why you—no, I won’t quarrel,” cried Harry. “What did she say to you?”
“Say to me? I was never so snubbed in my life. Her ladyship doesn’t know me if she thinks I’m going to give up like that.”
“There, that’ll do, Vic. No threats, please.”
“Oh, no; I’m not going to threaten. I can wait.”
“Yes,” said Harry, thoughtfully; “we chose the wrong time. We mustn’t give up, Vic; we shall have to wait.”
And they went back to their old nook beneath the cliff to smoke their pipes, while as the thin blue vapour arose Harry’s hot anger grew cool, and he began to think of his aunt’s words, of Comte Henri des Vignes, and of the fair daughters of France—a reverie from which he was aroused by his companion, as he said suddenly—
“I say, Harry, lad, I want you to lend me a little coin.”