Stephen. I should like to drown some of the wise people in champagne."
The paying portion of the Pelican had gone to bed, and the windows were dark. Roland, slipping a hand under Sorrell's arm, walked with him so that they entered the door together, like partners and equals.
"We had better lock up. And then a pow-wow and a last pipe."
He locked the door, while Sorrell shot the bolts, and though the evening had passed Sorrell had a feeling that it would revive and rise to a second climax. He had divined in Thomas Roland the almost roguish reticence of a man who was hiding a dramatic finale. Yes,—and enjoying it, gloating over it.
Roland's room showed deserted chairs, and empty glasses, old Porteous's table-napkin trailing across a dish of fruit, and Bowden's flowers a splash of colour in the centre of the whiteness. Roland closed the door. He edged towards the sideboard with an attentive glance at Sorrell.
"Have a whisky,—Stephen."
His teeth showed white in his brown face.
"I'm going to. All right. Fill your pipe. It has been a great evening."
He filled the glasses, and transferring himself and his to the hearthrug, watched Sorrell packing tobacco into the bowl of a pipe. Yes, the fellow's fingers were just a little jetky and excited. Had he any idea:
"Sit down, old chap."
Sorrell sat down on the edge of one of the big arm-chairs.
"I haven't thanked you"
"Leave it at that."
There was silence between them, and Sorrell, glancing up, found Roland looking down at him over the edge of his glass.
"I suppose you have saved a little money, Stephen?"
Sorrell struck a match.
"An odd thousand. It's for the boy."
"Just so. Well,—let's talk business. That New Forest place is going to boom. I told you that I have had my eye on an hotel in Salisbury,—and on another at Bath."
"I think you did."
"I'm simply spilling with money. Obviously, the thing
