“I don’t desire that reminder,” Hyacinth said; “and moreover you must let me tell you I somehow don’t easily fancy you mixed up with things that don’t come off. Anything you have to do with will come off, I think.”
Muniment reflected a moment, as if his little mate were charmingly ingenious. “Surely I’ve nothing to do with the particular job——!”
“With the execution, perhaps not; but how about the idea of it? You seemed to me to have a great deal to do with it the night you took me to see him.”
Paul changed his posture, raising himself, and in a moment was seated Turk-fashion beside his friend. He put his arm over his shoulder and drew him, studying his face; and then in the kindest manner in the world he brought out: “There are three or four definite chances in your favour.”
“I don’t want second-rate comfort, you know,” said Hyacinth with his eyes on the distant atmospheric mixture that represented London.
“What the devil do you want?” Paul asked, still holding him and with perfect good humour.
“Well, to get inside of you a little; to know how a chap feels when he’s going to part with his particular pal.”
“To part with him?” this character repeated.
“I mean putting it at the worst.”
“I should think you’d know by yourself—if you’re going to part with me.”