"Yes, yes," he replied. "I dare say. But it's getting late, and I'm an early riser." He beckoned to a waiter for his bill.
"What's hurry?" enquired Holt.
"It is late," repeated Stainton.
Holt shook his head.
"Never late in New York," said he, and then rising uncertainly to his feet, he pointed a warning finger. "Or you may call it Nature. Perhaps's Nature's a better word. Nature. Beautiful nature. Trees and things. Birds mating in—in May. Mustn't go 'gainst beautiful nature, Jim."
"Come on," said Stainton.
But in the street, Holt flung his arms about his unwilling companion's neck.
"I'm—I'm fond of you, Jim," he said. "You save' my life 'n'—an' God knows I love you." Easy tears were running down his puffed cheeks. "Only you are old, Jim. You know you are."
Stainton disguised his disgust. He disengaged himself gently.
"No, I'm young, George," he said, "and young blood will have its way, you know."