Motives of policy prevented the Major from receiving this with the resentment that was proper to it, and his face cleared. He would get quits over these incessant lemons and lumps of sugar.
“Well, you’ll have to let me borrow from you to-night,” he said genially, as he poured the rest of the contents of his bottle into the glass. “Ah, that’s more the ticket! A glass of whisky a day keeps the doctor away.”
The prospect of sponging on Puffin was most exhilarating, and he put his large slippered feet on to the fender.
“Yes, indeed, that was a highly amusing incident about Miss Mapp’s cupboard,” he said. “And wasn’t Mrs. Plaistow down on her like a knife about it? Our fair friends, you know, have a pretty sharp eye for each other’s little failings. They’ve no sooner finished one squabble than they begin another, the pert little fairies. They can’t sit and enjoy themselves like two old cronies I could tell you of, and feel at peace with all the world.”
He finished his glass at a gulp, and seemed much surprised to find it empty.
“I’ll be borrowing a drop from you, old friend,” he said.
“Help yourself, Major,” said Puffin, with a keen eye as to how much he took.
“Very obliging of you. I feel as if I caught a bit of a chill this afternoon. My wound.”
“Be careful not to inflame it,” said Puffin.
“Thank ye for the warning. It’s this beastly climate that touches it up. A winter in England adds years on to a man’s life unless he takes care of himself. Take care of yourself, old boy. Have some more sugar.”
Before long the Major’s hand was moving slowly and instinctively towards Puffin’s whisky bottle again.
