"Jim,—does this make any difference between you and me?" I asked, crossing over to him on the spongy floor of hoof parings and steel filings. "Does it, Jim?"
He caught me by the shoulders, in his old, rough way, and looked into my face. Then he smiled sadly and shook his head.
"No, George, no! You're different: you always were different; you are the same straight, honest George Brammerton to me;—still the same."
"Then, Jim, you will let me try to do something here? You will promise me not to get into personal contact with Harry,—at least until I have seen him and spoken with him. Not that he does not deserve a dog's hiding, but I should like to see him and talk with him first."
"Why should I promise that?" he asked sharply.
"For one thing,—because, doubtless, Harry is home now. And again, there is going to be a week-end House Party at our place. Harry's engagement of marriage with Lady Rosemary Granton is to be announced; and Lady Rosemary will be there.
"It would only mean trouble for you, Jim;—and, God knows, this is trouble enough."
"What do I care for trouble?" he cried defiantly. "What trouble can make me more unhappy than I now am?"
"You must avoid further trouble for Peggy's sake," I interposed. "Jim,—let me see Harry first. Do what you like afterwards. Promise me, Jim."
He swallowed his anger.