Tempest was sitting, miserably enough, before the fire, with his feet on the fender and his hands up to the back of his head as I entered. It was not till I was well in the room and had closed the door that he turned round and saw me.
I thought at first he meant to fly at me, his face clouded so angrily. But it changed to a look of contempt as he said,—
“Well?”
“Tempest, I’m awfully sorry, really I am, but—”
“Don’t let us have any of that. If I thought you’d meant it, I should precious soon know what to do. You’ve done me about the worst turn a fellow could, and if you weren’t a conceited young ass it would be some use thrashing you. As it is, somebody else may do that when I’m gone.”
The wretchedness of his tone quite touched me. I forgot my anger and sense of resentment, and all the old affection and loyalty came back with a rush. How could I ever have imagined a fellow like Crofter was worthy to hold a candle to my old Dux?
“Really, Tempest,” began I, losing my head and blundering I scarcely knew whither, “when you saw me talking to Crofter—” He uttered an angry exclamation.
“There, now, shut up about your friend Crofter. I don’t want to hear about him.”
“He’s not my friend, Tempest; he’s—he’s yours.”
He wheeled round in his chair and laughed bitterly.