John laughed. Then he relapsed into gloom, frowning.
“It’s no laughing matter,” he said.
“It wasn’t I who laughed,” urged Corin gently. “Come, tell me.”
“Oh, well,” said John stretching out his legs. And forthwith he set himself to speak, succinctly, concisely.
“Bless the man!” cried Corin at the end of the recital, “so it’s that that’s weighing on his mind.”
“Well?” demanded John surprised, and not a little injured. “And isn’t it enough to weigh on a man’s mind? Isn’t it an entirely unparalleled situation? Isn’t it an unthinkable, inconceivable situation?”
Corin waved his cigarette in the air.
“Oh, I’ll grant you all that. But you’re too susceptible. You’re too—too ultra-sympathetic. It isn’t your Castle. It isn’t your relation that has appeared unwanted from the other side of Nowhere. It isn’t you who have got to take a back seat and see Americans vault over your head into the position you have just vacated.” He stopped.
“Oh, well,” said John frigidly, “if that’s the way you look at things.”
Corin sighed.