“Of course. Oh, yes. Played up the popular literary man for all it was worth. So he said, of course you were too important nowadays to remember your old friends.”
“Damn it,” I said, “what a tactless devil you are, Lathom. You needn’t have hurt his feelings.”
“No, but look here. Why not come down? It’ll please the old boy no end, and as neither of the women will be there, there won’t be any awkwardness. It’s a damned good opportunity for being civil to him without involving your wife.”
“Civil is a good word for it,” I objected. “I don’t know that it’s particularly civil to plant myself on the man like that, and make him feed me and so on, without notice, when he probably doesn’t want me. Just at the weekend, too, when it’s difficult to get extra supplies.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Lathom, “we’ll take some grub down with us. I was going to in any case. Everything has to be brought out there by a carrier twice a week. Frightful desolate hole. We’ll take a bit of beef and a couple of pounds of sausages. That’ll see us through all right.”
I considered it.
“I say,” said Lathom, suddenly. “Do come, old man. I wish you would. It’s all right there, you know, but I do get a bit bored at times. I’d like to have a yap with somebody who talks my language.”
“If you’re fed up,” I said reasonably, “why do you stay?”
“Oh, well—I promised I would, don’t you see. It’s not bad really, but it would do us both good to have a bit of a change.”
“Now, look here, Lathom,” said I, “I don’t like the idea particularly. I’m not particularly puritan” (I don’t know why one uses that phrase—I