“Well,” continued the major, “why have you come?”
“You are going, then?”
“Of course I am, sir.”
“Well, I came to tell you I’m very glad of it,” cried Sir John, clapping his brother on the shoulder; and then—“I say, Jem, I wish I hadn’t such a peppery temper.”
“No, no, Jack, no, no,” cried the major, excitedly; “it was I who was to blame.”
“Wrong, Jem. I contradicted you—very offensively, too, and I am confoundedly in the wrong. I didn’t know it till Glynne came and pulled me up short. I say, it’s a great pity for us to quarrel, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said the major, laying his hands upon his brother’s shoulders, “it is—it is, indeed, Jack, and I can’t help thinking that I shall be doing wisely in going back to my old chambers, for this projected wedding worries me. We’ll see one another more seldom, and we won’t have words together then. You see—no; stop a moment! Let me speak. You see, I feel my old wound now and then, and it makes me irritable, and then the climate has touched up my liver a bit. Yes, I had better go.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jem,” cried Sir John. “Go, indeed! Why, what the dickens do you suppose I should do without you here? Tchah! tush! you go! Absurd. There, get dressed, man, and come down to dinner. No: come along down with me first, and we’ll get a bottle or two out of the number six bin. There’ll just be time.”
The major shook his head, as he looked at the bullock trunk and a very much bruised and battered old portmanteau waiting to be filled.
“Now, Jem, old fellow, don’t let’s quarrel again,” cried Sir John, pathetically.