“Most creditable, sir, most creditable; and I wish I could say the same to you, my dear Macey. A little more patient assiduity—a little more solid work for your own sake, and for mine. Don’t let me feel uncomfortable when the Alderman, your respected father, sends me his customary cheque, and make me say to myself, ‘We have not earned this honourably and well.’”
The rector nodded to all in turn, and went out first, while, as books were being put together, Macey said sharply:—
“Here, Vane; I’m going to walk home with you. Come on!”
Vane glanced at Distin, who stood by the table with his eyes half-closed, and his hand resting upon the dictionary he had turned into a missile.
“He’s waiting to hear what I say,” thought Vane, quickly. Then aloud:—“All right, then, you shall. I see through you, though. You want to be asked to lunch on the toadstools.”
In spite of himself, Vane could not help stealing another glance at Distin, and read in the contempt which curled his upper lip that he was accusing him mentally of being a coward, and eager to sneak away.
“Well, let him,” he thought. “As I am not afraid of him, I can afford it.”
Then he glanced at Gilmore who was standing sidewise to the window with his hands in his pockets; and he frowned as he encountered Vane’s eyes, but his face softened directly.
“I won’t ask you to come with us, Gil,” said Vane frankly.
“All right, old Weathercock,” cried Gilmore; and his face lit up now with satisfaction.