"I wonder what the answer of the New Militant will be to Rawnsley," he murmured when he had read the article.
"That is for you to say," I told him. "You read the Heavens and interpret dreams and forecast the future...."
"Fortunately I can't."
This was an unexpected point of view.
"Wouldn't you if you could?" I asked.
"Would any one go on living if he didn't cheat himself into believing the future was not going to be quite as black as the present?"
This was not the right frame of mind for a man who had spent two nights dancing with Sylvia—to the exclusion of every one else, and I told him so.
"Come along to the Randolph," he exclaimed impatiently. "To-day, to-night; and to-morrow all will be over. I was a fool to come. I don't know why I did."
We picked up our hats and strolled into King Edward Street.
"You came because Sylvia invited you," I reminded him. "I heard the invitation. Young Rawnsley was not there, but Culling and Gartside were, and a dozen more I don't know by name. Any of them might have been chosen instead, but—they weren't. You should be more grateful for your advantages, my young friend."