For he felt a real pleasure at the sight of the burly figure of his friend and a sudden, uncontrollable longing for sympathy.
They drew their chairs together before the cheerful blaze and exchanged commonplaces as the waiter brought drinks.
Then, as the door closed, Bethune's voice changed. "What's up, Peter?—got the flu?"
"No—the sack!" He laughed as he spoke, amused at the other's perspicacity.
For Bethune was a man to whom his friends turned instinctively in trouble, with—perhaps?—no memory that, on other occasions more hilarious, they voted this "quiet chap" a trifle "slow."
"Turned you down—eh? Not that Merrod woman?"
"Good Lord, no! I've done with her. It's a girl ... a young girl. Or rather her father! I'm feeling a bit hipped over it all."
He told the story from beginning to end, Bethune listening with an occasional grunt.
"Nice sort of man for a father-in-law! Seems to me you're well out of it."
"But I don't want to be! Never mind Cadell! I'm not marrying the family." Bethune smiled. "I'm hard hit this time—and I'll see it through—if it comes to a good old Gretna Green bolt!"