“That's all right, uncle. I know what you mean,” returned Miss Sellars, with equal handsomeness.
“Bring him round again when he's feeling better,” added Uncle Gutton, “and we'll have another look at him.”
“What you want,” advised the watery-eyed young man on shaking hands with me, “is complete rest and a tombstone.”
I wished at the time I could have followed his prescription.
The maternal Sellars waddled after us into the passage, which she completely blocked. She told me she was delight-ted to have met me, and that she was always at home on Sundays.
I said I would remember it, and thanked her warmly for a pleasant evening, at Miss Sellars' request calling her Ma.
Outside, Miss Sellars agreed that my presentiment had proved correct—that I had not shone to advantage. Our journey home on a tramcar was a somewhat silent proceeding. At the door of her room she forgave me, and kissed me good night. Had I been frank with her, I should have thanked her for that evening's experience. It had made my course plain to me.
The next day, which was Thursday, I wandered about the streets till two o'clock in the morning, when I slipped in quietly, passing Miss Sellars' door with my boots in my hand.
After Mr. Lott's departure on Friday, which, fortunately, was pay-day, I set my desk in order and confided to Minikin written instructions concerning all matters unfinished.
“I shall not be here to-morrow,” I told him. “Going to follow your advice.”