But Buz, to his father's amazement, stood his ground.
"You must hear me, father, else you can't understand."
"If you've come to say anything about Grantly you may spare yourself the pains, he has told me himself."
"About Grantly," Buz repeated stupidly, "why should I want to talk about Grantly?—it's about him and me I want to talk."
"Him and you?" Mr Ffolliot echoed desperately.
"Yes, I rotted him that night and he was awfully decent——"
"What night?"
"The night I broke my arm—they said at the Infirmary that if he hadn't been so careful of me it would have been much worse."
"You refer, I suppose, to Gallup?"
"Yes, father, and it really was decent of him, because I went dressed up as a suffragette and had no end of a rag; he might have been awfully shirty, and he wasn't—he never told a soul. Don't you think we ought to ask him?"