“Eighteenpence.”
“You duffer! I didn’t mean them—pudding raisins I meant, about sixpence. I say, you’d better take them back, hadn’t you?”
This was gratitude! “I can’t now,” said Stephen.
“I’ve got to get somebody’s tea ready—I say, where’s his study?”
“Whose? Loman’s? Oh, it’s about the eighth on the right in the third passage; next to the one with the kicks on it. What a young muff you are to get this kind of raisin! I say, you’d have plenty of time to change them.”
“I really wouldn’t,” said Stephen, hurrying off, and perhaps guessing that before he met Mr Paul again the raisins would be past changing.
The boy to whom belonged the mixed sweets was no more grateful than Paul had been.
“You’ve chosen the very ones I hate,” he said, surveying the selection with a look of disgust.
“You said peppermint,” said Stephen.
“But I didn’t say green, beastly things!” grumbled the other. “Here, you can have one of them, it’s sure to make you sick!”