“You can but you won’t,” I replied. “Hand it over.” I regarded the carrying of that suit-case as a symbol of my new way of life. I hoped that when we arrived at the Farm, Anne might see me carrying it, and realise that even a writer of foolish comedies, who was well off and belonged to the Jervaises’ class, might aspire to be the equal of her brother.
“It’s all right,” Banks said, and his manner struck a curious mean between respect and friendship.
I laid hold of the suit-case and took it from him almost by force.
“You see, it isn’t so much a suit-case as a parable,” I explained.
He looked at me, still reluctant, with an air of perplexity.
“A badge of my friendship for you and your family,” I enlarged. “You and I, my boy, are pals, now. I take it you’ve left the Jervaises’ service for good. Imagine that this is Canada, not an infernal Park with a label on every blade of grass warning you not to touch.”
“That’s all right,” he agreed. “But it’s extraordinary how it hangs about you. You know—the feeling that they’ve somehow got you, everywhere. Damn it, if I met the old man in the wood I don’t believe I could help touching my hat to him.”
“Just habit,” I suggested.
“A mighty strong one, though,” he said.
“Wait till you’re breathing the free air of Canada again,” I replied.