For one minute Dick considered the proposition seriously.
“No, thanks, I've a headache already.”
“Virtuous child. That's the effect of emotion on the young. All my congratulations, Dick. I also was concerned in the conspiracy for your welfare.”
“Go to the devil—oh, send Binkie in here.”
The little dog entered on elastic feet, riotous from having been made much of all the evening. He had helped to sing the choruses; but scarcely inside the studio he realised that this was no place for tail-wagging, and settled himself on Dick's lap till it was bedtime. Then he went to bed with Dick, who counted every hour as it struck, and rose in the morning with a painfully clear head to receive Torpenhow's more formal congratulations and a particular account of the last night's revels.
“You aren't looking very happy for a newly accepted man,” said Torpenhow.
“Never mind that—it's my own affair, and I'm all right. Do you really go?”
“Yes. With the old Central Southern as usual. They wired, and I accepted on better terms than before.”
“When do you start?”
“The day after tomorrow—for Brindisi.”