“What cat?” I exclaimed, in an agitated voice. “You are all mistaken, indeed you are. Smith’s father is not a—I mean he’s merely away for his health, I assure you.”
“Rather a lingering illness,” drily replied the Field-marshal, amid general laughter, “if it’s kept him abroad all these years.”
“If you will take my advice, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, “you’ll be careful how you tell everybody a thing like this. It’s not a pleasant sort of thing to be known of a fellow.”
“Indeed, indeed,” I cried once more, almost beside myself with terror and rage, “you’re all wrong. I wish I’d said nothing about it. Won’t you believe me?”
“Delighted,” said Whipcord, who with every one else had been enjoying my dismay, and laughing at my efforts to extricate myself. “You say Smith’s governor is a—”
“No—it’s false. I was telling a lie!” I cried, in tones of misery which any ordinary mortal would have pitied. “I don’t know what he is. I never heard of him. Indeed, indeed, I was only speaking in fun.”
Thus wildly did I hope by a shield of lies to hide the secret which I had—by my manner more than my words—betrayed.
“I’m afraid, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, with a grave but sweet smile, “you either are not telling quite the truth, or you are speaking in fun about a very serious matter.”
“Oh yes, you’re right,” I cried; “I’ve been telling lies; upon my honour I have.”
“Upon his honour he’s been telling lies,” said Daly. “The fellow will have his joke. Never saw such a joker in all my days.”