"Cheer up," he addressed the broad shoulders of his still perturbed friend. "You mixed the news with soda water but I could have stood it neat."
Bethune wheeled round, his face red. "I'm jolly glad—I've been funking it." He met McTaggart's amused eyes and beamed all over his honest face.
"That's over," said McTaggart—"long ago. What about dinner?—I'll just go and have a wash and be with you—if you're ready."
"I should think I am!—half famished—I've been down at Brooklands with a new car. Hurry up!"
He dropped into a chair as McTaggart called through the folding doors.
"D'you ever see Jill now? It's a bad business about her mother."
"I was there yesterday—to inquire. They let her out at the end of the week—but she's been awfully ill since. It was pretty nearly touch and go..."
There came a sound of splashing water; then McTaggart's voice again:
"I'm glad she's home at any rate. What's become of the priceless Stephen?"
"Dont's ask me. I bar the chap. D'you remember old Charlie Mason? Well, he managed at last to get a billet with Hensley and Benton, the big wine people. He dropped in to see me, last night, full of trouble. It seems that Somerfield had let him in for a big order for himself and several pals of his. And now they say they can't stump up—it sounds like a regular plant! Awfully hard lines on Charlie—the firm have given him the sack."