"Hello, Ken!" he blurted, cheerfully. "You look like a gargoyle."
"Thanks!" All the light and joy fled at the sight of the big fellow by the hearth. Dispiritedly, Raymond sat down and resigned himself to what he believed was the inevitable.
Cameron regarded him critically as he might have a puzzling case. Then, having made a diagnosis, he prescribed:
"Sorry to see me here, old chap?"
"Why in thunder should I be?" Raymond glared.
"No reason—but then reason isn't everything. Nancy's a bit off—I'd hate to have her confront that mug of yours, Ken, if I can soften it up any. I came to bring some medicine from Uncle David—he's worried about colds these days. Nancy told me you were coming, she went upstairs to take her dose in private—she told me to stay and give you the glad hand and explain. Somehow you don't look exactly appreciative."
"Sorry!" Raymond found himself relaxing. "Want me to kiss you?"
"Try it! I'd like to have a fling at you. What's up, anyway, Ken? See here, old man, you know there might be any one of twenty fellows here to-night—you ought to be on your knees thanking heaven that it's I—not one of the twenty."
"What the devil do you mean?" Raymond got up, tried to feel resentment but could not.
"Nothing, only I'm going and—well, Ken, don't be an ass. It don't pay."