Part 22 (2/2)
”I am sixty-three,” replied the Colonel, with an instinctive lowering of his voice. He never stated his age if he could help it.
Mr. Walkingshaw continued to gaze at him oddly.
”I had forgotten how one feels at that time of life,” he said musingly, ”quite forgotten. Poor old Charlie; I oughtn't to have kept you up so late. I'd have felt like that at sixty-three myself. Well, my dear fellow, I'm glad we were able to have this night together before it became too late. It has made me feel quite old again to see you.”
Colonel Munro seized his arm and drew him towards the door, with all the vehemence of which he was capable.
”Come along--come along, Heriot!” he implored him; ”you have had a little more to drink than you quite realize!”
Heriot disengaged himself very easily from his trembling grip.
”My poor old boy,” he smiled, ”I'm as sober as you were when you started! I positively require the exercise. Besides, you must remember that this sort of thing is only just beginning for me; don't grudge me my fling. Get you to bed as quick as you can, Charlie. Sleep is what you're needing.”
”And do you know what you need?” exclaimed the Colonel, with another grab at his sleeve.
”A taste of life!” cried Heriot, evading his old fingers with wonderful agility, and slipping on his pasteboard nose.
He waved a gay farewell, threw his arm round the waist of the hot cross-bun, and waltzed out of the Colonel's vision.
It was not till two hours later that Heriot Walkingshaw, smiling with reminiscent pleasure and perspiring freely, set out on foot for his hotel. A brisk walk in the early morning air was the only pick-me-up _he_ needed.
CHAPTER III
During their descent upon the Metropolis of England, Mr. Walkingshaw and his son were residing at the Hotel Gigantique, that stately new pile in Piccadilly, so styled, it is understood, from the bills presented when you leave. On the morning after his evening spent with Charlie Munro, they met as usual at breakfast. Fortunately, the state of Mr.
Walkingshaw's health did not in the least seem to justify the forebodings of his friend. On the contrary, he tackled a fried sole with confidence, even with ardor, and put a great deal of cream into his coffee.
”What were you about last night?” he inquired genially.
”I dined with one or two fellows at the Rag,” said Frank.
”Doesn't sound very lively,” observed his father, ”that's to say, at your age,” he hastened to add; for he still believed in retaining the confidence of his children.
Frank smiled dreamily. This ”bust” in town was proving less solacing than he had hoped. Now that he had got here, he found himself too lovelorn to bust with any relish. At the same time, it was pleasant and soothing to enjoy each day the society of so charming a parent. Any disquietude he felt at the singular nature of the change had been allayed by one of his friends, an R.A.M.C. man, who a.s.sured him that a serious illness at his father's time of life was not infrequently followed by a marked rejuvenation of the patient; so that he was able to regard with unqualified grat.i.tude the generosity and kindness of the truant Writer to the Signet.
”What were you doing yourself?” he inquired presently.
”Dining with Colonel Munro,” replied his father, truthfully if a trifle meagerly.
He sipped his coffee, and then remarked--
”Poor Charlie Munro is growing old, I'm afraid. He knocks up very easily.”
He sighed and added, ”It's a melancholy thing, Frank, my boy, to see one's old friends slipping away from one.”
”What! Is he seriously ill?” asked Frank.
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