Radowitz lay still—thinking always of Falloden, and Lady Constance.
Another knock at his door—very timid and hesitating. Radowitz said “Come in.”
The door opened partially, and a curly head was thrust in. Another head appeared behind it.
“May we come in?” said a muffled voice. “It’s Meyrick—and Robertson.”
“I don’t care if you do,” said Radowitz coldly. “What do you want?”
The two men came in, stepping softly. One was fair and broad-shouldered. The other exceedingly dark and broad-shouldered. Each was a splendid specimen of the university athlete. And two more sheepish and hang-dog individuals it would have been difficult to find.
“We’ve come to apologise,” said Meyrick, standing by the bed, his hands in his pockets, looking down on Radowitz. “We didn’t mean to hurt you of course, and we’re awfully sorry—aren’t we, Robertson?”
Robertson, sheltering behind Meyrick, murmured a deep-voiced assent.
“If we hadn’t been beastly drunk we should never have done it,” said Meyrick; “but that’s no excuse. How are you? What does Fanning say?”
They both looked so exceedingly miserable that Radowitz, surveying them with mollified astonishment, suddenly went into a fit of hysterical laughter. The others watched him in alarm.