"Warde means well," he said; "and he's doing wonders with the Manor, but I hope he's not going to make a sort of tin parson of you?"
"As if he could!" said John.
"You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan."
"No, no."
"I say—yes."
"Cæsar," said John, in desperation, "perhaps we are sliding apart, but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. And think what it means to—me. You've heaps of friends, and I never was first, I know that. You can do without me, but I can't do without you."
"Dear old Jonathan." Cæsar held out his hand, smiling.
"I'm a jealous ass, Cæsar. And, as for calling me a parson," he laughed scornfully, "why, I'd sooner walk with you, even if you were the worst sinner in the world, than with any saint that ever lived."
The feeling in John's voice drove Cæsar's gay smile from his face. Did he realize, possibly, for the first time, that if John and he remained friends, he might drag John down? Suddenly his face brightened.
"Jonathan," he said gravely, "to please you, I'll not touch a card again this term, and we'll have such good times these last three weeks that you'll forget the rest of it."