“Oh, I believe so, but I am—as it were—on the other side.”
Captain Hastings looked puzzled and Mr. Pease hastened to explain.
“You see there is a little family friction on the subject of the guardianship of the children, during the absence of their parents abroad, and I am rather on the side of the aunt.”
Captain Hastings thought he looked as though he would be, but did not say so. “You are going to the Lodge, I suppose?” He knocked the ash off the end of his cigar.
No, Mr. Pease was not going there. The fact of the matter was Watkins also wanted a holiday—and they were both going to the inn so—so as to be near Glenbossie Lodge.
“And you?” asked Mr. Pease, feeling it was now his turn to ask questions. Miles Hastings did not say he was going to the Lodge, but he was.
“I shall hope to get into the inn,” he said modestly; “from what you say it must be a most excellent place.”
In the corner of a third-class compartment sat Watkins, writing a poem to Diana. He had been red with the rhyming possibilities of “glossy” and “Bossie,” and it may be presumed that a very minor poet is as eager to capture a rhyme as a swallow is to catch a fly.
Pease intimated to Hastings that he personally was enjoying the journey immensely—so far; hinted that it was almost a pity they should have to part; he supposed Captain Hastings had booked a sleeper, otherwise they might have talked the greater part of the night. Almost apologetically Hastings confessed that he had booked a sleeper. He was afraid he was a slave to comfort—it was a terrible thing to confess to; but Pease said he quite understood—he was only sorry for his own sake—being a light sleeper he was quite ready to talk.
Hastings gave him, at parting for the night, the story of the old lady, the parson, and the sleeping-berth, and felt it no poor thing to give. And when he saw Pease next morning Pease was still smiling. Whether it was the beginning of a new smile, or the lasting impression of the one he had worn the night before, when they had parted, Hastings could not say. It was enough that a man could smile after sitting up all night; it spoke well for England and her sons. Miles smiled, too, happy in thinking that perhaps on this very ground Diana, not long ago, had stood. He did not know the same thought filled the mind of Pease. Watkins had chased elusive quantities during a long night. He had neither had good sleep nor had he been able to make bad poetry—so he was not happy and he had never cared less for Pease. To the stranger, he had taken a great dislike. What had such a man to do with men like himself and Pease? Hard-working, sensible men!