"Well, not much!" McTaggart shuddered. "He's utterly impossible. The mother's not so bad—too stiff, you know, and conscious of her 'dignity,' but quite presentable—pass in a crowd."
"Then go in and win, my son."
Silence fell between them and at last McTaggart rose to his feet.
"I'm going to have some nourishment—I missed supper, you know."
Bethune grinned. "That's a nasty jar! He might have stood you a parting drink."
"I'll come back presently——" but still he lingered. His whiskey and soda had quenched his thirst and he found he had but little taste for food.
Mechanically he gathered up his letters; then sat down again in his chair.
"I'll read these first—it isn't late."
"Lost your appetite?" Bethune rubbed it in.
His friend, ignoring this ignoble sally, began to tear open the envelopes.