“Roger,” said he, “business calls me away from town for a day or two. I am sorry to interrupt our pleasant time together, but I hope it will not be long. Make yourself comfortable here, and take care of yourself.”
“Are you going to Maxfield?” inquired Roger.
“No. But an old comrade I find is in trouble and wants my advice. It is a call I can hardly turn a deaf ear to.”
Had Roger guessed that the friend on whom so much devotion was to be expended was Mr Robert Ratman, he would have displayed a good deal more curiosity than he did as to his guardian’s business. As it was, he was not sorry to be left thus to his own devices.
“You know your way to the club by this time,” said the captain. “Make yourself at home there—and keep out of mischief.”
That evening Roger went somewhat nervously to his guardian’s club. Since last night he had grown to detest the place and the company. But just now it was the one place where he might expect to hear something of his lost brother.
His new friends greeted him boisterously—and, relieved of the restraint of his guardian’s presence, made more than usually merry in his honour.
They chaffed him about his expectations, and quizzed him about Rosalind. They laughed at his rustic simplicity, and amused themselves by putting him to the blush. They plied him with wine and cigars, and rallied him on his pure demure face. One or two toadies sidled up and professed a sympathy which was more offensive than the badinage.
He endured all as best he could, for one reason and one only. The loudest and coarsest of his tormentors was Mr Fastnet.
At last, however, when, not for the first time, Rosalind’s name had been dragged into the conversation, the blood of the Ingletons rose.