“Ah, you sly dog! Oh, shame! shame! Ha—ha—ha!” roared North. “The pretty widow—eh? That’s pulse-feeling, and putting out the tongue, and how are we this morning! Ha—ha—ha!”
Hartley Salis had a small piece of broiled ham upon his fork, being a man of excellent appetite; and at his friend’s first words, uttered in a most singular tone, he let the fork drop with a clatter, pushed his chair a little way back, and stared!
“I—I’m very sorry,” faltered North, in a most penitent tone.
“My dear North! Why, what is the matter with you?”
“A little—er—feverish, I think; that is all!”
“One is not used to hear such outbursts from you, old fellow,” said Salis; and there was a tinge of annoyance in his tone.
“Pray, pray go on. I—er—hardly know what I said.”
Salis drew his chair up again, picked up the fork, raised the piece of brown ham once, set it down, and then took up his cup and sipped the coffee, with his face resuming its unruffled aspect.
“I’m not cross, old fellow—only nettly. It’s so unlike you to attempt to—well, to use our old term—chaff me. Besides which, this thing is a great source of annoyance to me. I feel as if I cannot accept the present—as if it laid me under an obligation to Mrs Berens; and, really, I should be glad to have your advice. What would you do?”
“What would I do?” cried North, in a coarse, rasping voice. “Why, you know what you want me to say. Get out, you jolly old humbug!”