“I hate it.”
“Why, then?”
“Because,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “because I hate this other thing more,—this sitting out of it, when real men are doing!”
He hesitated, and then leaned forward.
“David, if you ever make up your mind—if you feel you need a longer time to pull yourself together—or if you want to get out—let me know. That’s all.”
This hurt more than he could understand, and my answer must have been brusque, for though he spoke out of affection for me, he deserved it.
“Look here, Mr. Brinsmade, I don’t want things done that way.”
“I only meant—”
“Thank you, but there’s too much of that, already. Question of pride; that’s all.”
He was tactful enough not to insist and turned the conversation. Towards the end of the dinner, and a magnificent bottle of Château Margot 1896, he said to me: