“You let them go on purpose.”
“Of course I did,” said Vane. “Here’s your handkerchief. You don’t suppose I would take them up, and hand them over to the police, and let you lower yourself like you said, do you?”
“Yes—yes,” cried Distin, speaking like a hysterical girl. “I will tell everything now; how I was tempted, and how I fell.”
“Bother!” cried Vane, gruffly. “That isn’t like an English lad should speak. You did me a cowardly, dirty trick, and you confessed to me that you were sorry for it. Do you think I’m such a mean beast that I want to take revenge upon you!”
“But it is my duty—I feel bound—I must speak,” cried Distin, in a choking voice.
“Nonsense! It’s all over. I’m the person injured, and I say I won’t have another word said. I came out this afternoon to ask you to make friends, and to shake hands. There’s mine, and let the past be dead.”
Vane stood holding out his hand, but it was not taken.
“Do you hear?” he cried. “Shake hands.”
“I can’t,” groaned Distin, with a piteous look. “I told you before mine are not clean.”
“Mine are,” said Vane, meaning, of course, metaphorically; “and perhaps—no, there is no perhaps—mine will clean yours.”