“De Saumarez, don’t be a fool.”
“I will not be an object-lesson,” said Lucian, making for the door. “My conscience rebels against the deception. I will expire on your threshold.”
Farquhar jumped up and put his back against the door. “Go and sit down, you fool!”
“I’ve not the slightest intention of sitting down. I will be a body—a demd, damp, moist, unpleasant body.”
“Do you mean this?”
“I do. I’m too proud to take money from a man who’s not a friend.”
Farquhar was very angry. He knew what Lucian wanted, but he would not say it. “Go, and be hanged to you, then!” he retorted, and flung round towards the fire.
“All right, I’m going,” said Lucian, as he went into the hall.
He took his cap and his stick. Overcoat he had none, and he could not now borrow Farquhar’s. His own clothes were inadequate even for mid-day wearing, and for night were absurd. All this Farquhar knew. He heard Lucian unbolt and unlock the front door, and presently the wind swept in, invaded the hall, and made Farquhar shiver, sitting by the fire. Lucian coughed.
Up sprang Farquhar; he ran into the hall, flung the door closed, caught Lucian round the shoulders, and in the impatient pride of his strength literally carried him back to the library close to the fire. “You fool!” he said. “You dashed fool!”