“In your opinion—I see it!—you think I have not sober command of myself, am not responsible—is that it?”
“Nonsense! I’ve said nothing of the sort,” protested the other. “Of course, you’re perfectly all right—but we’re both tired and sleepy, and you’re not so accustomed to go home by daylight as I am—and it wouldn’t be at all the thing for me to close a bargain with you now. Can’t you see what I mean? I wouldn’t play threepenny écarté with you at this hour in the morning—and I’m damned if I’m going to let you in for three hundred a year for the rest of my life. Shall I come round, say, at luncheon time?”
“I shall not be in,” said Christian, curtly. He looked at his companion, and then past him at the trees in the square, in vexed rumination. “What I have it in my mind to do”—he continued, vaguely, after a pause—“it is not a thing for delay. It is in my blood to do it at once. It was my impulse to make you my comrade in it—but of course, since you have your reservations and doubts, there need be nothing more said about it.”
The shrug of the shoulders which emphasized these last words nettled Westland, and at the same time helped him to repress his annoyance. It lent to the whole episode just that savor of foreign eccentricity which appealed to the amiable tolerance of the islander.
“My dear man,” he urged, gently, “I haven’t the slightest notion what it is that you’re so keen about—but whatever it is, do go home and sleep on it, and make up your mind calmly after breakfast. It’s no good deciding important questions, and striking out new lines, and all that sort of thing, at this hour in the morning. Nobody ever does it, you know. It simply can’t be done.”
“Good-night!” said Christian, proffering his hand. “You are right; it is high time for those who are sleepy to go to bed I won’t drag you round to Duke Street.”
Dicky looked at him doubtfully. “You do wrong to be angry, you know,” he said.
“But that is your error—I am not in the least angry—I beg you to believe it,” cried Christian. His eyes beamed genially in proof of his assertion, and he put heartiness into his voice. “For a minute I was disappointed—shall I say vexed?—but not any more. How should I quarrel with you for not beholding things through my eyes? To me, something is a giant; you perceive that it is a windmill. Eh bien! We do not convince each other—but surely we do not quarrel.”
“Oh, I am game enough to play Sancho to your Don,” expostulated Dicky, with a readiness which Christian had not looked for, “but I draw the line at starting out on an empty stomach, and when we’re too sleepy to stand. Well, what shall it be?” He took the hand offered him, and strove to signify by his cordial grasp that no trace of a misunderstanding remained. “Shall I look you up, say, at two o’clock?”
“I do not think I shall be there. Goodnight!” responded Christian, and the two parted.