"Sleepy?" interrupted his father, "not a bit of it. See here," and he filled the three glasses once more from the decanter.
"To the master of Camslove Grange," he cried, lifting his glass. And they drank the health, standing.
As Tommy walked home over the starlit fields, the scene came back to him.
The old man, wheezy but gracious, his son flushed and handsome, the panelled walls and their trophies, and the sparkling glasses—a brave picture.
True—he was still sore, but the episode of the farmer and his stick seemed infinitely remote, and Madge and the pale boy, ghosts of an era past: for had he not drunk of the good red wine, and kept company with gentlemen?
[X]
IN WHICH I RECEIVE TWO WARNINGS, AND NEGLECT ONE
I suppose that, by this time, I had grown fond of Tommy, in a very real way, for, as the weeks passed by, I was quick to notice the change in the boy.