that 's no use. You 've simply got to come along with me, and we 'll walk home through the rain. Take Belgium at your leisure."
"It isn't Belgium that 's worrying me!" said poor Mr. Brassington.
"No, I know," said Charles Kirby soothingly. "I understand."
The two men went out into the night and the storm. Charles Kirby enjoyed bad weather; it was part of his manifold perversity. He tried to whistle in the teeth of the wind as they went along the main road towards the Crampton Park suburb of the town. Brassington strode at his side.
"You didn't order a carriage," said Kirby after a little while; "you didn't know it was going to rain. I suppose that Green Overcoat of yours has got luck in the lining?"
"It has a cheque-book of mine in the pocket," said John Brassington.
"Yes, but that 's not what you 're bothering about," said Mr. Kirby. "You 're bothering about the luck. For a man who hates cards, John, you 're superstitious."
For some paces Brassington said nothing, then he said—
"Long habit affects men."
"Of course it does," said Mr. Kirby, with
