“Then I refuse to be exhilarated alone,” said Fergus gallantly; “and you always have the effect of champagne on me anyway. I decline to say good-bye. I can’t even believe it is ‘au revoir’ between us. We had such delightful days ahead, and so many plans.”
“Yes; it isn’t nice to make up your mind so suddenly that it turns everything topsy-turvy,” sighed Tommy—“I won’t have any meat, thank you.”
Walter looked distinctly grieved. “I can recommend the pulley-ong-cazzerole, miss, and there’s potatoes sortey with it.”
Tommy’s appetite kindled at the sound of his accent, and she relented. “Yes, I’ll have a small portion, please, after all.”
“When friends are together the world seems very small, and when they are separated it becomes a space too vast for human comprehension—I think I’ve heard that before, but it’s true,” said Appleton.
“Yes,” Tommy answered, for lack of anything better to say.
“It seems as if we had known each other for years.”
“And it is less than three weeks,” was Tommy’s contribution to the lagging conversation.
“The bishop offered me a letter of introduction to you when he wrote me at the Bexley Sands Inn, you remember, but he added in a postscript that in case of accident he was not to be held responsible. Rather cryptic, I thought—at the time.”
“A little Commonburg, sir?” asked Walter. “It is a very fine ripe one, and we have some fresh water-cress.”