“I’m quite well,” said I, in what I intended to be a chilly voice.
“That’s right. Very brickish of you to have us up. We all thought so, didn’t we, Crow?”
“Rather,” replied Crow.
“I’m afraid some of the fellows were rather rude,” continued Doubleday. “Those Twins are awfully underbred beggars. I believe, you know, their mother never knew which of the two it was that wanted whopping, and so she let them both grow up anyhow. If I’d been her, I’d have licked them both regularly, wouldn’t you, Crow?”
Without setting much store by Doubleday’s moral disquisition on the duty of the parents of Twins, I felt mollified by the half apology implied in his reference to yesterday’s entertainment, and to the manner of his behaviour towards me now. It was clear he felt rather ashamed of himself and his cronies for their behaviour. Who could tell whether, if they had given me a fair chance, my supper might not have been a success after all? At any rate, I didn’t feel quite so downhearted about it as I had done.
“How’s that festive old lady,” proceeded Doubleday, “this morning? I pity you with an old dragon like her to look after you. That’s the worst of those boarding-houses. A fellow can’t do the civil to his friends but he’s sure to be interfered with by somebody or other.”
He was actually making excuses for me!
Yes; if it hadn’t been for the rudeness of some of the fellows and the aggravating behaviour of Mrs Nash, my supper would have gone off quite well. I was quite thankful to Doubleday for the comfort he gave me, and cheerfully accepted an invitation to go up to his lodgings “to meet just the usual lot” next evening.
Which I did, and found the “usual lot” in their usual good spirits. No one seemed to bear a grudge against me for that cold eel-pie, and one or two assured me that they had enjoyed themselves immensely.
Nothing could speak more for my greenness and vanity than the fact that I believed what they said, and felt more convinced than ever that my party, however it had seemed to go off, had really been a success.