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"How wrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way."
"I shall be sorry if it rains," said Mr. Blatherwick.
Conversation languished.
James laid his cup down.
"I have some writing to do," he said. "I think I'll be going upstairs now."
"Er—just so," said Mr. Blatherwick with relief. "Just so. An excellent idea."
"Er—Datchett," said Mr. Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.
"Yes?" said James.
A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had broken through the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received the previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letter from the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certain passages indicated in the margin.
"I have—ah—unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf," said Mr. Blatherwick.
"Yes?" said James. He had missed Adolf's shining morning face.
"Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with a malicious—er—fabrication respecting yourself which I need not—ah—particularize."
James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one's bosom.
"Why, I've been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately. No sense of gratitude, these foreigners," he said, sadly.
"So I was compelled," proceeded Mr. Blatherwick, "to—in fact, just so."
James nodded sympathetically.
"Do you know anything about West Australia?" he asked, changing the subject. "It's a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going there at one time."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Blatherwick.
"But I've given up the idea now," said James.
