“Oh, damn!” said Findlay.
“All very well for you to swear,” said Temple, “but you forget about me. ’Tain’t your place to swear. If only you’d left things alone—”
“I thought the pass-word was forget,” said Findlay.
Temple stared into the fire for a space, “Forget,” he said, and then with a curious return to a clarity of speech, “Findlay, I’m getting drunk.”
“Nonsense, man, take some more.”
Temple rose out of his chair with the look of one awakening. “There’s no reason why I should get drunk, because—”
“Drink,” said Findlay, “and forget it.”
“Faugh! I want to stick my head in water. I want to think. What the deuce am I doing here, with you of all people.”
“Nonsense! Talk and forget it, if you won’t drink. Do you remember old Jason and the boxing-gloves? I wonder whether you could put up your fives now.”
Temple stood with his back to the fire, his brain spinning with drink, and the old hatred of Findlay came back in flood. He sought in his mind for some offensive thing to say, and his face grew dark. Findlay saw that a crisis was upon him and he cursed under his breath. His air of conviviality, his pose of hearty comforter, grew more and more difficult. But what else was there to do?