“Bring your handsome friend with you. More the merrier. There’ll be champagne enough for the lot.”
“Look alive,” said Percy; “you’ll lose your train. Jeff and I aren’t coming.”
“Why not?” said they.
“Because we’re going the other way,” replied Percy, who, when his mind was made up, did not appreciate anybody’s importunity. “I’ve not seen Jeff for a week.”
“Who is this precious Jeff?” said one of Scarfe’s friends, pointing over his shoulder to the librarian.
“He’s a gentleman employed by the month to look after Percy’s morals,” said Scarfe, with a sneer.
“A parson! What a game! No wonder Percy draws in his horns a bit when he comes home. Anyhow, we must save him from the paws of the lion if we can. I say, Percy, you must come, old man. We made all the arrangements for four, boat and everything; and if you don’t want to stay late we’ll give up the supper. Only don’t spoil our day, there’s a good fellow. You’ll be able to see lots of your friend when we’ve gone.”
“You be hanged,” observed Percy, now in an uncomplimentary mood; “haven’t I told you I’m not coming? What more do you want?”
“Oh, of course, if you’re so taken up with this reverend thing of beauty,” said one of them sulkily, “we’re out of it. I should have thought he could have snuffled to himself for a day without wanting you to help him.”
Scarfe all this time stood by in a rage. The sight of Jeffreys was to him like the dead fly in the apothecary’s ointment. It upset him and irritated him with everybody and everything. He had guessed, on receiving no reply to his recent polite letter, that he had exposed his own poor hand to his enemy, and he hated him accordingly with a double hatred.