“Couldn’t help it.”
“I’m getting sick of Greythorpe. No police to ask your way, no gas lamps, no cabs.”
“None at all. It’s a glorious place, isn’t it, Aleck?”
“Well, I suppose it is when you know your way, and are not being pricked with thorns.”
“Ah, you’re getting better,” cried Vane. “What shall we do—go back alone, or try and find them?”
“Go back, of course. I’m not going through all that again to-day to find old Distin, and hear him sneer about you. He’s always going on. Says Syme has no business to have you at the rectory to mix with gentlemen.”
“Oh, he says that, does he?”
“Yes, and I told him you were more of a gentleman than he was, and he gave me a back-handed crack over the mouth.”
“And what did you do—hit him back?”
“Not with my fist. With my tongue. Called him a nigger. That hits him hardest, for he’s always fancying people think there’s black blood in his veins, though, of course, there isn’t, and it wouldn’t matter if there were, if he was a good fellow. Let’s get on. Where’s the lane?”