“Oh, bosh!” Croyden interrupted. “Don’t be 273 so humble—you’re rather proud of your interference.”
“I am! Certainly, I am! I’m only sorry it is so unavailing.”
“Who said it was unavailing!”
“You did!—or, at least, I inferred as much.”
“I’m not responsible for your inferences.”
“What are you responsible for?” asked Macloud.
“Nothing! Nothing!—not even for my resolution—I haven’t any—I can’t make any that holds. I’m worse than a weather-cock. Common sense bids me go. Desire clamors for me to stay—to hasten over to Ashburton—to put it to the test. When I get to Ashburton, common sense will be in control. When I come away, desire will tug me back, again—and so on, and so on—and so on.”
“You’re in a bad way!” laughed Macloud. “You need a cock-tail, instead of a weather-cock. Come on! if we are to dine at the Carringtons’ at seven, we would better be moving. Having thrown the blue funk, usual to a man in your position, you’ll now settle down to business.”
“To be or not to be?”
“Let future events determine—take it as it comes,” Macloud urged.