There was another short pause. Dudley, without looking again at his
friend, examined his hand, saw that it was now clean, and replaced the
soiled handkerchief in his pocket. He seemed by this time to be
thoroughly at his ease, but Max was not deceived.

"Of course not," said Dudley, quickly. "I only meant
that--considering"--he paused, and seemed to be trying to recollect
something--"considering what took place down at Datton yesterday and how
anxious your father seemed to be rid of me--"

"But what has my father got to do with me, as far as you are concerned,
Dudley, eh?" said Max.

There had come upon him suddenly such a strong impression that his
friend was in some awful difficulty, some scrape so terrible as to make
him lonely beyond the reach of help, that Max, who was a good-hearted
fellow and a stanch friend, spoke with something which might almost be
called tenderness:

"We've always been chums, now, haven't we? And a row between you and
Doreen, or between you and my father, wouldn't make any difference to
me. I--I suppose you don't mean to give me the cold shoulder for the
future, eh?"

Dudley had turned his back upon him, and was standing on the hearth-rug,
looking down at the fire, in an attitude which betrayed to his friend
the uneasiness from which he was suffering. It was an attitude of
constraint, as different as possible from any in which Max had ever seen
him.