“I am sorry to say, my dear Lascelles,” said Cheriton, judicially, “that I cannot accept that as an adequate answer to a straightforward question.”
“No, it is not a very good answer,” Jim agreed.
Suddenly his jaw dropped and he burst into a queer laugh.
“The fact is, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, “I am in a hole.”
Cheriton regarded Jim in a highly critical manner.
“Yes, Lascelles,” said he, slowly. “I think you are.”
“A hole,” Jim repeated with additional emphasis, as if he desired to gain confidence from a frank statement of his trouble.
Jim’s odd face seemed to appeal for a little sympathy, but not a suggestion of it was forthcoming.
“What can a fellow do?” said Jim, desperately. “She will come and sit here on that sofa in a better light than the duchess. The sun of the morning will shine upon her; and when Nature comes to handle pink and white and blue and yellow she has a greater magic than ever Gainsborough had.”
Cheriton shook his head with magisterial solemnity.