There they had saki and pipes, and George du Telle had bought a Pickford’s van-full of rubbish, and parted with a fat green check on Cox’s. An exceedingly fat check written with one eye shut, it is true, but quite in order.
“I dined with them.”
“Ye whoat!” cried Mac, coming back from a vision of the victorious Danjuro doing the cake-walk amidst his bronzes and lacquers, kimono pinched up on either side between finger and thumb, his nose in the air, and on his face an assumption of stiff and haughty pride enough to kill one with laughter.
“Weel! weel!” said Mac, addressing the hills of the landscape garden.
“What are you weel-weeling about?” asked Leslie irritably.
“I am not a puncteelious man,” said Mac, still addressing the hills, “in the small concairns of life, but if a lassie had treated me same’s she you, I’d a seen her dammit before I’d ha’ dined wi’ her.” He shouted the last words, and brought his big fist down on his knee with a bang.
“Don’t shout,” said Leslie, “and make an ass of yourself. We didn’t quarrel when we parted; we parted good friends. She didn’t want to marry me—well, that was her look-out.”
“I wish they hadna’ come,” said Mac gloomily.
“What on earth is the matter with you now?”
“I’ve seen the waurld,” said the Gloomy One, “and I’ve seen wummen. And I’ve seen her—saw her in the smoke-room—” He stopped.