"Oh—shut up! You ... dear old fool!"
McTaggart glanced around at his rooms, the worn carpet and furniture that had seen service in College days—each scratch and dent a memory.
Above the glass, still littered with cards and photographs, there hung an oar and underneath, on either side, stood a pair of battered silver cups.
He drew a deep sigh of content.
"Get me a drink—there's a dear chap! Hullo—that window's still smashed. What a rag it was! d'you remember that night?" For the topmost pane of glass was cracked from side to side beneath the blind.
"Let's look at you"—he took the glass that Bethune filled for him and drank. "That's good. Why!—the 'Round Man's' growing a figure..."
Bethune scowled.
"Shut up! I got in whiskey—thought you'd want it. Here's luck——" he tossed it off—"What are you going to do about dinner? It's getting pretty late, you know."
"Yes—we had a rotten crossing—the boat an hour over time. Have you dined yourself—no?—that's right. I thought we'd go down to Simpson's. I feel like a good cut off the joint..."
Bethune laughed. "The illustrious Marquis is tired of his native macaroni?"