John Turner was awaiting his visitor, and gave a large soft hand inertly into Colville’s warm grasp.
“I always wish I saw more of you,” said the new-comer.
“Is there not enough of me already?” inquired the banker, pointing to the vacant chair, upon which fell the full light of the double window. A smaller window opposite to it afforded a view of the court-yard. And it was at this smaller window that Colville glanced as he sat down, with a pause indicative of reluctance.
Turner saw the glance and noted the reluctance. He concluded, perhaps, in the slow, sure mind that worked behind his little peeping eyes, that Loo Barebone was in the carriage in the court-yard, and that Colville was anxious to return to him as soon as possible.
“It is very kind of you to say that, I am sure,” pursued Turner, rousing himself to be pleasant and conversational. “But, although the loss is mine, my dear Colville, the fault is mostly yours. You always know where to find me when you want my society. I am anchored in this chair, whereas one never knows where one has a butterfly like yourself.”
“A butterfly that is getting a bit heavy on the wing,” answered Colville, with his wan and sympathetic smile. He sat forward in the chair in an attitude antipathetic to digression from the subject in hand.
“I do not see any evidence of that. One hears of you here and there in France. I suppose, for instance, you know more than any man in Paris at the present moment of the—” he paused and suppressed a yawn, “the—er—vintage. Anything in it—eh?”
“So far as I could judge, the rains came too late; but I shall be glad to tell you all about it another time. This morning—”
“Yes; I know. You want your money. I have it all ready for you. But I must make out some sort of receipt, you know.”
Turner felt vaguely in his pocket, and at last found a letter, from which he tore the blank sheet, while his companion, glancing from time to time at the window, watched him impatiently.