He merely stared at her, and the widow tactfully interposed.
"Of course you are going to the match on Saturday?" said she.
"Of course, Madge."
"Have you forgotten Mr. Berstoun is coming to see you?" asked Miss Walkingshaw.
He waved aside this objection with a dignified sweep of his hand. A piece of cake happened to be in it, and the icing flew across the floor. On the instant he was on his hands and knees collecting it.
"Berstoun's a mere nuisance," he answered from the carpet. "He'll never get out of debt if he lives to a thousand. What's the good in his coming to see me? Let him tell his creditors to go to the devil; that's the only sensible thing to do."
He rose chuckling—
"He'll go himself some day; so they'll meet again."
His sister's face was too much for the widow's gravity. She began to laugh hysterically, her black eyes dancing all the time in the merriest fashion at her host. It was so infectious that in a moment he had joined her.