Felix shook his head violently. If the thought had once or twice occurred to him, he repudiated it with all his force when shaped by another's mouth—and such a mouth, so wide and rubbery!
“No, no! Strange boy! Extravagant sense of honour—too sensitive, that's all!”
“Quite so,” murmured Mr. Pogram soothingly. “These young people! We live in a queer age, Mr. Freeland. All sorts of ideas about, nowadays. Young men like that—better in the army—safe in the army. No ideas there!”
“What happens now?” said Felix.
“Wait!” said Mr. Pogram. “Nothing else for it—wait. Three months—twiddle his thumbs. Bad system! Rotten!”
“And suppose in the end he's proved innocent?”
Mr. Pogram shook his little round head, whose ears were very red.
“Ah!” he said: “Often say to my wife: 'Wish I weren't a humanitarian!' Heart of india-rubber—excellent thing—the greatest blessing. Well, good-morning! Anything you want to say at any time, let me know!” And exhaling an overpowering whiff of gutta-percha, he grasped Felix's hand and passed into a house on the door of which was printed in brazen letters: “Edward Pogram, James Collet. Solicitors. Agents.”
On leaving the little humanitarian, Felix drifted back toward the court. The cars were gone, the groups dispersed; alone, leaning on his stick, the old, dark-whiskered man stood like a jackdaw with a broken wing. Yearning, at that moment, for human intercourse, Felix went up to him.
“Fine day,” he said.