papers which were his business, at last caused the older man to make a remark. It was in his best manner.
“What’s the matter, eh?” he suddenly shot at him, without prelude of any kind.
Laurie’s attention came back with a jump, and he flushed a little.
“Oh!—er—nothing particular,” he murmured. And he set himself down to his books again in silence, conscious of the watchful roving eye on the other side of the table.
About half-past twelve Mr. Morton shut his own book with a slap, leaned back, and began to fill his pipe.
“Nothing seems very important,” he said.
As the last uttered word had been spoken an hour previously, Laurie was bewildered, and looked it.
“It won’t do, Baxter,” went on the other. “You haven’t turned a page an hour this morning.”
Laurie smiled doubtfully, and leaned back too. Then he had a spasm of confidence.
“Yes. I’m rather upset this morning,” he said. “The fact is, last night …”
Mr. Morton waited.
“Well?” he said. “Oh! don’t tell if me you don’t want to.”
Laurie looked at him.
“I wonder what you’d say,” he said at last.