“Humph!” said Sir Gordon rather gruffly. “I half expected, every time I came back, to find you married, Bayle.”
“Find me married?” said Bayle, laughing. “My dear sir, I am less likely to marry than you. Confirmed old bachelor, and I am very happy—happier than I deserve to be.”
“Don’t cant, Bayle,” cried Sir Gordon peevishly. “I’ve always liked you because you never threw sentiments of that kind at me. Don’t begin now. Well, there, I must trot. You are going to dine with me?”
“Yes; I’ve promised.”
“Ah,” said Sir Gordon, looking at Bayle almost enviously, “you always were quite a boy. What a physique you have! Why, man, you don’t look thirty-five.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry, man?”
“Well, then, I’m very glad.”
“Bah! There, put on your hat, and come down at once. I hate this part of London.”
“And I have grown to love it. ‘The mind is its own place.’ You know the rest.”