“I know of him,” commented Dicky sententiously.
“Well, it has occurred to me that these young men, for whom there seems no specially suitable foothold in England, might accomplish something in the colonies. That is the way Greater Britain, as they call it, has been made—by young men who might have done nothing at all worth doing at home. Life is really very difficult and complicated in this crowded island, unless one has exactly the temperament to succeed. But in the colonies it is different. Men who are of no use here may become valuable there. I have heard that there are many instances of this. And these young men, it seems to me that very possibly, if they found themselves on new ground, they might do as others have done and get on. We do not quite know what to do with them here, but we send them out, and they make the Empire.”
“It’s rather rough on the Empire, though, isn’t it?” said Dicky.
Christian frowned and drew himself up a little. “One is my cousin,” he said coldly, “and the other is the brother of—is the brother of my cousin’s wife.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the secretary, as upon a sudden resolution, stopped. “It’s no good my going on,” he said, nervously, but with decision. “I daresay you don’t mean it, but all the same it’s too much for me. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn it up and catch the evening-train. I don’t mind going to the station in the brake with the servants and the luggage. It certainly won’t take anybody by surprise.” Christian regarded him with open-eyed astonishment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, in obvious candor.
Dicky restlessly threw out his hands. “Oh, I can’t stand this Dukeness of yours,” he declared. “You put it on too thick. I know Gus Torr, and I know as much as I want to of Tom Bailey, and I know they’re no good, and you know it, too—although I don’t say they mayn’t get on in the colonies. God knows what won’t get on there! But when I make some perfectly civil and natural remark on the subject, you flame up at me, and blow yourself out like a pouter pigeon, and say they’re—haw-haw!—relations of yours. Well, that be damned, you know! It may do once in a way with outsiders, but it isn’t good enough to live with.”
“Dicky!” said Christian, in a voice of awed appeal. His brown face distorted itself in lines of painful bewilderment as he gazed at his companion. “Have I done that? Is it as bad as that?” He gasped the questions out in a frightened way and tears sprang into his eyes. “Then it is not you who should catch the evening train, but me. I am not fit to be here!” He finished with a groan of bitter dejection and bowed his head.
Westland, as much scared as surprised at the violent result of his protest, moved impetuously to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. “No-no! No-no,” he said, in a soothing voice. “It’s all right! I said you didn’t mean it, you know. Truly, old man, I knew you didn’t mean it! Upon my word, it’s all right!”
Christian lifted his head, and tried to choke down his agitation. “But you go away from me!” he said in despairing tones. “It is the same as ever! Nothing is changed for me! I do not make friends—much less keep them!”
“But I am your friend! You are keeping me!” Dicky insisted, raising his voice. An odd impulse to laugh aloud struggled confusedly with the concern the other’s visible suffering gave him. “I take it all back. I’m stopping with you, right enough!”