"What a number of questions you do ask!" say I, impatiently. "Of what possible interest can it be to you where we are going?"
"Only that I shall be your nearest neighbor," replies he, stiffly; "and, as Sir Roger has hardly ever been down hitherto, I am rather tired of living next an empty house."
"Our nearest neighbor!" cry I, with animation, opening my eyes. "Not really? Well, I am rather glad! Only yesterday I was asking Sir Roger whether there were many young people about. And how near are you? Very near?"
"About as near as I well can be," answers he, dryly. "My lodge exactly faces yours."
"Too close," say I, shaking my head. "We shall quarrel."
"And do you mean to say," in a tone of attempted lightness that but badly disguises a good deal of hurt conceit, "that you never heard my name before?"
Again I shake my head.
"Never! and, what is more, I do not think I know what it is now: I suppose I did not listen very attentively, but I do not think I caught it."
"And your tone says" (with a very considerable accession of huffiness) "that you are supremely indifferent as to whether you ever catch it."
I laugh.