"You're the most incomprehensible fellow, Bev," said the Viscount, seating himself on the edge of the table and swinging his leg. "You have been a constant surprise to me ever since you found me—er—let us say—ruminating in the bilboes, and now"—here he shook his head gravely—"and now it seems you are to become a source of infernal worry and anxiety as well."
"I hope not, Dick."
"You are, though," repeated the Viscount, looking graver than ever.
"Why?"
"Because—well, because you are evidently bent upon dying young."
"How so, Dick?"
"Well, if you ride in the race and don't break your neck, Carnaby will want a word with you; and if he doesn't shoot you, why then Chichester certainly will—next time, damn him!"
"Next time?"
"Oh, I know all about your little affair with him—across the table.
Gad, Beverley, what a perfectly reckless fellow you are!"
"But—how do you know of this?"