“The pleasure of winning other people's money,” laughed Arden sourly. “Pindledykes knows very well what he's about. He turns his time to very good account, and wastes very little of it, I assure you, in pitying other people's misfortunes.”
“I'm glad to see that you and Richard are on pleasanter terms,” said David Arden to his brother, as he sipped his tea beside him.
“Egad! we are not, though. I hate him worse than ever. Would you oblige me by putting a bit of wood on the fire? I told you how he has treated me. I wonder, David, how the devil you could suppose we were on pleasanter terms!”
Sir Reginald was seated with his crutch-handled stick beside him, and an easy fur slipper on his gouty foot, which rested on a stool, and was a great deal better. He leaned back in a cushioned arm-chair, and his fierce prominent eyes glanced across the room, in the direction of his son, with a flash like a scimitar's.
“There's no good, you know, David, in exposing one's ulcers to strangers—there's no use in plaguing one's guests with family quarrels.”
“Upon my word, you disguised this one admirably, for I mistook you for two people on tolerably friendly terms.”
“I don't want to plague Wynderbroke about the puppy; there is no need to mention that he has made so much unhappiness. You won't, neither will I.”
David nodded.
“Something has gone wrong with him,” said David Arden, “and I thought you might possibly know.”
“Not I.”