“Certainly not. In fact I think it’s very kind indeed of you to make him your friend under the circumstances.”
Of course I knew what these last words meant. A day or two ago they would have terrified me; but now in my mortified state of mind they didn’t even offend me.
“Jack and I always got on well,” I said, “until he began to interfere with my affairs. I didn’t like that.”
“Of course not; nobody does. But then you know he has always been a sort of guardian to you.”
“He was never anything of the sort,” I retorted.
“Well,” said Hawkesbury, pleasantly, but with a touch of melancholy in his voice, “I never like to see old friends fall out. Would you like me to speak to him and try to make it up?”
“Certainly not,” I exclaimed. “If I want it, I can do that myself.”
“What can he do himself?” cried Doubleday, entering at this moment with Crow and Wallop, and one or two others of last night’s party. “Was the young un saying he could find his way home by himself after that supper last night, eh? My eye, that’s a good ’un, isn’t it, Crow?”
“Nice gratitude,” cried Crow, “after our carrying him home and propping him up against his own front door.”
“I wonder what his friend Smith thought of it?” said Wallop; “he must have been shocked.”