“My friend’s society is more congenial to me than yours is at present!” I said, colouring up and bending over my writing.
“I see,” said he, “he has got you under this thumb again, and means to keep you there.”
“Will you let me get on with my work?” I said.
“Oh, certainly!” said he, smiling blandly. “I merely wished to tell you how glad I was to see you back at last; but I dare say that doesn’t interest you.”
I made no answer, and, seeing that I was determined to hold no more conversation, he gently withdrew.
I felt quite relieved when he had done so, and still more to find that, for the first time in my life, I had been proof against his blandishments.
“What have you been doing to Petty-Cash?” whispered Doubleday to me, presently; “he looks so smiling and benevolent that I’m certain you must have given him mortal offence about something or other.”
“I don’t care if I have,” I said.
Doubleday whistled softly. “I say, young ’un,” said he, “your illness has smartened you up a bit, I reckon, eh?”
This, coming from the source it did, I felt to be a compliment. However, I had more calls upon my new resolutions before the day was over.