“You sound gay as a lark. What’s come over you? I’d advise a ball a week at this rate. Perhaps you are going to come out as a ‘fusser’—a regular squire of dames—in your old age.”
“No such good luck. I have seen but one dame I should care to squire, and she—well—” and Russell sighed genuinely.
“A confession?” exclaimed Jack, gleefully. “But it’s never too late to mend, so go ahead.”
“I have no story. I am simply the victim of overwhelming circumstances. Love came unsought, unsent, and it will probably expire when I do. So no more at present from yours idiotically.”
“I know you too well to press queries. You will, as usual, just shut your jaw and glare in silence if you don’t care to hold forth on any topic. I, too, am ready for silence, though for a grosser reason.”
They kept pace together without speaking, until they reached the landing where Jack turned in at his door, Russell ascending higher.
“Good night! Good day!” said Jack as they parted. “By the way, I forgot to mention that my mother tells me it was Agnes—my Agnes, you know—and not my sister Margaret, with whom you had that chat in the committee-room. Now, I did suppose that even a churlish old bach like you could tell the difference between those two. Margaret’s a nice girl—a dear girl—but Agnes—well, you know what I think of Agnes!”
“Agnes?” repeated Russell, almost in a whisper.
“Yes, my bride-to-be, when I get money enough to claim her. My mother said she as evidently took to you as you did to her. That’s as it should be, old chap. When I’m awake we’ll have a jolly long talk over her perfections. Meantime, you evidently need sleep as much as I do. I never saw such a pale face as you’ve got on you suddenly. Brace up, and good-by till we meet again.”
“Agnes,” repeated Russell, mechanically, as he crept up his flight of stairs and went into his room.