“All right! I’ll just have another drink,” he answered, helping himself to the whisky. “I’m going out to tea with Mrs. Castillyon.”
Frank pricked up his ears, but said nothing. Reggie looked at him, smiled with great self-satisfaction, and winked.
“Smart work, ain’t it—considering I’ve only known her a fortnight. But that’s the right way with women—rush ’em, I saw she was smitten the first time we met, so I made a dead-set for her. I knew she was all right, so I just told her what I wanted; by Jove, she is a little baggage! I’ve come to the conclusion I like ladies, Frank; you don’t have to beat about the bush. You just come to the point at once, and there’s no blasted morality about them.”
“You’re a philosopher, Reggie.”
“You think I’m rotting, but I’m not. I’ll read you the letter she wrote me. By the way, I’m going to give her your address—in case the mater stops anything.”
“If letters come for you here, my friend, they shall be promptly returned to the postman.”
“You are a low blackguard; it wouldn’t hurt you,” said Reggie crossly. “But if you think that’ll stop her writing, it won’t, as I shall just have them sent to my crammer’s. I say, I must read you this; it’s rather funny.”
Reggie took from his pocket a letter on which Frank recognised Mrs. Castillyon’s large writing.
“Don’t you think it’s playing it rather low down to show the private letters which a woman has written you?”
“Rot!” cried Reggie, with a laugh. “If she didn’t want anyone to see them, she oughtn’t to have written.”