Jack said that evening he thought it was a pity I had said as much as I had, and further reflection made me think the same. However, it couldn’t be helped now, and anything that made clear the estimation in which I held Masham was on the whole no bad thing.
That evening when we got back we found Mr Smith at home. He had come, he said, to insist on taking Jack’s place with Billy for the night. Jack protested in vain that he felt quite fresh, that he was not in the least sleepy, and so on. Mr Smith was inexorable for once, so we had finally to retire together to the room downstairs, and leave him in possession.
As we said good-night he gave me a look which I well understood.
“It’s awful nonsense,” said Jack, “making out I want sleep. Why, I’ve slept most of every night I’ve been up there. I’m sure more than he has.”
“He thinks a good deal about you, Jack, I fancy,” said I, anxious to steer the talk round in the required direction. Jack nodded and went and opened the window.
“It’s awfully close to-night,” said he.
We stood leaning out of the window for some minutes, watching the few passengers in the street below and saying nothing. What Jack was thinking about I could not tell. What was passing through my mind I knew well enough.
“How do you think he seems?” asked I, after a long pause.
“Who, Billy? He’s getting on wonderfully.”
“I didn’t mean Billy,” said I. “I meant Mr Smith.”