“Certainly!” The boy looked up. “I will write to-morrow.”
The garden door had no sooner closed on Falloden than Radowitz threw himself back, and went into a fit of laughter, curious, hollow laughter.
Sorell looked at him anxiously.
“What’s the meaning of that, Otto?”
“You’ll laugh, when you hear! Falloden and I are going to set up house together, in the cottage on Boar’s Hill. He’s going to read—and I’m to be allowed a piano, and a piano-player. Queer, isn’t it?”
“My dear Otto!” cried Sorell, in dismay. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Well, he offered it—said he’d come and look after me. I don’t know what possessed him—nor me either. I didn’t exactly accept, but I shall accept. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because Falloden’s the last person in the world to look after anybody—least of all, you!” said Sorell with indignant energy. “But of course it’s a joke! You mean it for a joke. If he proposed it, it was like his audacity. Nobody would, who had a shred of delicacy. I suppose he wants to disarm public opinion!”
Radowitz looked oddly at Sorell from under his finely marked eyebrows.