Wyndham’s face clouded. He had come fresh from Riddell’s study an hour ago. His brother’s friend had been as kind as ever. In a hundred ways he had shown it without sermon or lecture, and Wyndham had felt stung with a sense of his own ingratitude and dishonesty as he accepted the help and goodness of his mentor.
Now, consequently, this summons to present himself before Silk was more than usually distasteful.
“I can’t come, tell him. It will take me all the evening to finish this.”
“You’d better go, though,” said Gilks.
“I can’t. Why had I better go?” asked Wyndham, looking uncomfortable.
“It’s something important he wants you for. You’d better go, young un.”
Wyndham flung down the book in his hand with a baffled air, and muttering, “I hate the fellow!” walked miserably off. Gilks called him back for a moment.
“I say,” he said, “don’t you be such a fool as to rile Silk, young un. He could make it precious awkward for you and me too if it came to a row. Take my advice and keep in with him.”
Wyndham answered nothing, but went off moodily to Silk. “Ah, Wyndham,” said the latter, cordially, as his young protégé entered, “I was just wondering if you’d give me a look up.”
“Gilks came and said you wanted me; that’s why I came,” said Wyndham.