“There is no one here but ourselves,” said Lionel, languidly. The pain was almost more than he could bear up against.
Kester recovered his equanimity after an impatient “Pish” at his folly, and the two men went slowly out of the billiard-room together. Outside the door Kester whispered in his cousin’s ear, “I will go and fetch the mixture, and be back again in two minutes.” Lionel nodded, and Kester was gone.
“Why need he have whispered to me?” asked Lionel of himself. “There was no one to overhear him. There’s something queer about him to-night. A little touch of the blues, perhaps; and yet he never seems to drink very hard.”
Lionel went off to his rooms—a bedroom and sitting-room en suite, next to the rooms occupied by Osmond. He took off his coat and tie, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and then sat down with his feet on the fender, waiting for Kester.
Lionel Dering had been troubled with occasional headaches of a very distressing kind ever since he could remember any thing, and he had quite made up his mind that he must be so troubled till the end of the chapter. He had no faith in his cousin’s proposed remedy, but he would take it simply to oblige Kester.
Kester was not long away. He entered the room presently, carrying a small silver tankard in his hand.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I feel for this night’s work,” said Lionel.
“What have you done that you should feel sorry for?” asked Kester, as he put down the tankard on the table.
“I ought to have left the billiard-room instead of flying at poor little Osmond in the brutal way I did. He was half drunk to-night, and didn’t know what he was about. He would have apologised in the morning, and then everything would have come right.”
“Considering the provocation you received I think that you acted throughout with the greatest forbearance. Osmond, to say the least of it, is not worthy of any serious consideration.”