“Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully as he gathered up his hat and stick. “It's only Field. I dare say he's waiting for me now. I shan't turn up at the club, though. He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels and drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and go. I must be off now. Let me know when Clytie is on view again and I'll throw over anybody.”
Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes there was no one like Thornton.
“Thornton is a bit of an egotist,” said George mildly to his wife, later in the evening, when they were alone together. He was not addicted to the hyperbolic, like Caroline.
“Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow—and such a splendid man!”
“'Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!'” murmured her husband.
Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one thing his wife disliked it was that he should quote Latin at her. It generally occasioned a distraction. If it failed, he translated. The effects of that were certain. This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his remark to remain “veiled in the obscurity of a learned language.”
CHAPTER XII.
I do wish you would cheer up, old chap,” said Wither sympathetically. “You are getting uncomfortable—like Mr. Mantalini's body, in the midst of our joyousness.”