"I think I can promise I shall not raise a dust," said John, dispassionately, watching the knife turn in his flesh.
"And—and," continued Archie—"why, I need not marry money now. I can take my pick." New vistas seemed to open at every turn. His weak mouth fell ajar. "My word, John, times are changed. And—my debts; I can pay them off."
"And run up more," said John. "It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good."
"I don't call it much of an ill wind," said Archie, chuckling; "not much of an ill wind."
In spite of himself, John laughed aloud at the naïveté of Archie's remark. That it was an ill wind to John had not even crossed his mind.
It would cross Di's, John thought. She would do him justice. But, alas! from the few who will do us justice we always want so much more, something infinitely greater than justice—at least, John did.
The early table d'hôte dinner broke in on Archie's soliloquy, and, much to John's relief, that favoured young gentleman discovered that a lady of his acquaintance was dancing at one of the theatres that evening, and he determined to go and see her. He could not persuade John to accompany him, even though he offered, with the utmost generosity, to introduce him to her.
"Well, if you won't, you won't," said Archie, seeing his persuasions did nought avail, and much preferring to go by himself. "If you would rather sit over the fire in the dumps, that's your affair, not mine. Ta-ta. I expect you will have turned in before I'm back. By-the-by, can you lend me five thick 'uns?"
John was on the point of refusing when he remembered that the actual money he had with him was more Archie's than his.
"Thank'ee," said Archie. "You part easier than you used to do. I expect it'll be the last time I shall borrow of you—eh, John? It will be the other way about in future."