"I think not, thanks. You're not a bad fag, young man. I'm quite sorry you've got into the Sixth."
"No more of our ten-day meetings," said O'Rane.
Loring half-closed his eyes.
"Believe me or not," he said, "I always regarded those meetings as a blot on our otherwise delectable friendship. Are you going home for the holidays, Spitfire?"
"I haven't got a home," O'Rane answered, with a sudden return of his old sullenness.
Loring opened his eyes and bowed apologetically.
"Sorry. I didn't know. No offence meant. What are you going to do with yourself?"
"Oh, I shall find something to do."
"Would it amuse you to stay with me any part of the time? Oakleigh's coming, in case you feel you can't stand me alone. I'll take you to a Christmas pantomime as a reward for being a good little fag."