Bayle laughed.
“Yes: that’s right: laugh at me. I’m getting old and weak. Laugh at me. I suppose the next thing will be that you will go off and leave me here in the lurch.”
“That is just my way, is it not?” said Bayle, smiling.
“Well, no,” grumbled Sir Gordon, “I suppose it is not. But then you are such a fool, Bayle. I haven’t patience with you!”
“I’m afraid I am a great trial to you.”
“You are—a terrible trial; every one’s a terrible trial—everything goes wrong. That blundering ass Tom Porter must even go and knock a hole in the Sylph on the rocks.”
“Yes, that was unfortunate,” said Bayle.
“Here: I shall go back. It’s of no use staying here. Everything I see aggravates me. Matters are getting worse with the Hallams. Let’s go home, Bayle.”
Christie Bayle stood looking straight before him for some time, and then shook his head softly.
“No: not yet,” he said at last.