"Oh, here and there, among old acquaintance. I have not been out of London."
"And you did not know a soul here?"
"Oh, well, no fashionable folk, like your friends, but a scapegrace or two. You are not vexed with me?"
Frank had sat up in bed to talk to him. He saw that he looked pale, weary, and unkempt. His trousers were deeply bordered with mud; his hat crushed; there was a three-cornered rent in his great-coat. And he stood there in evident confusion, like a boy, with his doubting, coaxing smile.
"Come, do not be cross with me; take me into favour once more."
This was too much for Frank. Provoked beyond measure, he exclaimed:
"But, Bertie, what a cad you look! And where on earth have you been?" he asked again.
"Oh; here and there."
And he could get no more out of him. Bertie would only say that he had wanted to disappear; and now he was tired—- he would go to bed. He slept till three in the afternoon. Frank laughed over it all day, and Bertie went into fits when he heard of the police. At dinner, at the club, he related, with a melancholy face, that he had been out of town for a few days, attending a funeral. Frank had failed to receive a note through the carelessness of a servant.
"But where in the world have you really been?" whispered Frank for the third time, infinitely amused and inquisitive.