“Oh! I beg your pardon. I thought you were under thirty.” The tone was courteous but indifferent. It stung.
“I’m over. A little.”
“In that case you’re not obliged to go, of course. Then you won’t consider an offer for The Guardian?”
“I did n’t say that.” Jeremy’s mind revolved many things swiftly. The Guardian’s days were probably numbered anyway. If he could sell at a decent price now, he could retrieve part of his own fortunes and make a fresh start after the war. Besides, there was Andy and his hard-scraped two thousand dollars. No one could criticize him for selling out with a view to making the larger sacrifice and going into the army. But in his heart he knew it was the lesser sacrifice. He knew it would be a surrender, with a salve to his conscience; knew it and would not confess the knowledge to himself.
“Ah, well!” said Wymett’s even, tired voice. “I wish I were young enough to get in.”
Jeremy’s head lifted. “When do you want an answer?”
“You gave me one hour,” Wymett reminded him.
“So I did.” Jeremy smiled. “Times have changed since then. Or you would n’t be back in Fenchester,” he added rather brutally.
“Tactful of you to remind me,” returned the other, unperturbed. “People’s memories are charitable—and short. Suppose we say to-morrow?”
“Three days,” amended Jeremy. “That will be Monday. By the way, whom do you represent?”