John was somewhat mollified.
"I am your friend, but not when you talk rot."
"Verney, look here, if you'll be decent to me, I will try to stick it out. I wish I was like you; I do indeed. I wish I was like Scaife. Why, I'd sooner be the Duffer, freckles and all, than myself."
John looked down upon the delicately-tinted face, the small, regular, girlish features, the red, quivering mouth. Suddenly he grasped that this was an appeal from weakness to strength, and that he, no older and but a little bigger than Fluff, had strength to spare, strength to shoulder burdens other than his own.
"All right," he said stiffly; "don't make such a fuss!"
"You'll have me for a friend, Verney?"
"Yes; but I ain't going to kiss your forehead to make it well, you know."
"May I call you John, when we're alone? And I wish you'd call me Esmé, instead of that horrid 'Fluff.'"
John pondered deeply.
"Look here," he said. "You can call me John, and I'll call you Esmé, when we're Torpids. And now, you'd better cut back to the house. I must think this all out, and I can't think straight when I look at you."