“He doesn’t think I’m afraid,” said Vane to himself.
“Am I to wait all day for you?” cried Macey.
“No; all right, I’m coming,” said Vane, finishing the strapping together of his books.—“Ready now.”
But he was not, for he hesitated for a moment, coloured, and then his face, too, lit up, and he turned to Distin, and held out his hand.
“I’m afraid I lost my temper a bit, Distie,” he said; “but that’s all over now. Shake hands.”
Distin raised the lids of his half-closed eyes, and gazed full at the speaker, but his hand did not stir from where it rested upon the book.
And the two lads stood for some moments gazing into each other’s eyes, till the blue-veined lids dropped slowly over Distin’s, and without word or further look, he took his cigarette case out of his pocket, walked deliberately out of the study, and through the porch on to the gravel drive, where, directly after, they heard the sharp crick-crack of a match.
“It’s all going to end in smoke,” said Macey, wrinkling up his forehead. “I say, it isn’t nice to wish it, because I may be in the same condition some day; but I do hope that cigarette will make him feel queer.”
“I wouldn’t have his temper for anything,” cried Gilmore, angrily. “It isn’t English to go on like that.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Vane; “he’ll soon cool down.”