“I’ll take precious care I don’t,” said the latter.
Reginald said “Thanks!” drily, and in a way so cutting that Mr Shanklin and Blandford both laughed this time.
“Look here,” said the unwholesome Pillans, looking very warm, “what do you say that for? Do you want to cheek me?”
“Don’t be a fool, Pillans. It doesn’t matter to you where he lives,” said Blandford.
“Thank goodness it don’t—or whether he pays his rent either.”
“It’s a pity you had to leave Garden Vale,” said Blandford, apparently anxious to turn the conversation into a more pacific channel; “such a jolly place it was. What do you do with yourself all day long in town?”
Reginald smiled.
“I work for my living,” said he, keeping his eye steadily fixed on Mr Pillans, as if waiting to catch the first sign of an insult on his part.
“That’s what we all do, more or less,” said Mr Shanklin. “Blandford here works like a nigger to spend his money, don’t you, old man?”
“I do so,” said Blandford, “with your valuable assistance.”