“Oh, well,” he said, smiling, “we won't quarrel over a definition. Call it anything you like.”
“Don't you think this a little uncalled for?” I asked, beginning to lose my temper.
“Bless you, no. Not among friends: not among such friends as we are.”
“I didn't know we were such devilish good friends,” I retorted warmly.
“Oh, yes, we are, devilish good friends,” he answered with assurance; “known each other from boyhood, and all that. And I say, old chap,” he added, “you needn't be jealous of me, you know. I got out of that long ago. And I'm after something else now.”
For a space I was speechless. Then the ludicrous side of the matter struck me, and I laughed in spite of myself. Better, after all, to deal with a fool according to his folly. The Celebrity glanced at the door and drew his chair closer to mine.
“Crocker,” he said confidentially, “I'm glad you came here to-day. There is a thing or two I wished to consult you about.”
“Professional?” I asked, trying to head him off.
“No,” he replied, “amateur,—beastly amateur. A bungle, if I ever made one. The truth is, I executed rather a faux pas over there at Asquith. Tell me,” said he, diving desperately at the root of it, “how does Miss Trevor feel about my getting out? I meant to let her down easier; 'pon my word, I did.”
This is a way rascals have of judging other men by themselves.