"Pity, all the same," he said abruptly. "Do you an almighty good to work. No—I mean it..." as McTaggart laughed—"a slack life's all wrong for a fellow like you. Now here I am, at it hard, every blessed day in the week. And what's the result? When I get a Saturday clear for a day's shoot or golf, you've no idea how I enjoy it. I'm like a school-boy at a bean-feast!"
"Bless you, my child," McTaggart mocked. "I don't grudge you your virtuous pleasure—go and paddle and make mud-pies—it keeps you nice and young—and fat!"
"Shut up!" Bethune made for the door—"Oh, by the way, would you like the car? If so ring up Central 609, and one of the men will bring it round. Any time before two o'clock, but you'll have to take it back yourself. It's half-day at the works, you know."
"Right-o! Hope you'll have good sport."
He watched Bethune clamber down the narrow staircase out of sight, with his broad shoulders and thick brown coat, not unlike an enormous bumble-bee.
Then, closing his door, he poured out a cup of tepid coffee and drank it thirstily. He lifted the cover off the dish that flanked the battered rack of toast. Spread-eagled, gray and cold, a mackerel met his disgusted gaze.
"Looks dead," said McTaggart thoughtfully. He replaced the cover rather quickly, played with some toast upon his plate and gathered up his pile of letters.
Three bills, a stockbroker's list and an invitation to a dance. Then, with a slight awakening of interest, he found a letter in Jill's round hand.
"DEAR PETER,
Many happy returns of the day. I'm awfully sorry your present's not ready, but I've been so busy all this term. I'll explain better when we meet and I hope to send it you next week.