Tea had meanwhile been laid for us upon the terrace. Tony, who had been asleep outside in the sun, threw off drowsiness like an outworn garment, and sat up beside my chair, with raised head, and beautiful, dark eyes that watched every movement I made, especially those which happened to convey a piece of bread and butter or cake into my mouth. When I looked at him he instantly gave half a dozen quick wags of his tail, and then resumed his former attitude of motionless expectation, to which attention was attracted by a variety of queer little highly expressive noises he produced from somewhere in his throat. Nobody being there to prevent me, I gave him about half the cake, piece by piece, each of which he swallowed almost whole, and with a wag of the tail to show how he appreciated this delicate pastime. “Did you get much hurt last night?” Gerald asked me suddenly. The question was unexpected, for I looked upon the whole incident as closed. I glanced up from feeding Tony. “No; not much,” I answered. “And the other――I forget his name――Sam something?” “Oh, Sam’s all right.” “Do you think I should have fought him?” “One was enough,” I said carelessly. “Did you think I was afraid?” I looked away. His question seemed somehow to be all wrong. “I didn’t think about it,” I answered, after a slight pause. “It must have looked as if I were afraid,” he went on. “I thought so afterwards.” I couldn’t imagine what he was trying to get at. I wanted to stop him talking like this. It was even less to my taste than his funking Sam last night had been. “Are you working at anything besides music?” I asked him, jerkily. He shook his head. “Not very much. I have a tutor. Why won’t you talk about last night?” “What is there to talk about? I’m sorry it turned out that way, but I can’t help it, though of course it was my fault for taking you without letting the others know. I should have told them beforehand.” “I’m not afraid of that lout, anyway. If I see him again――――” “Oh, well, what’s the use of worrying about it?” I interrupted, disgusted with his persistence. The pause that followed was an uncomfortable one. If he had deliberately tried to efface the impression his music had made upon me he could not have succeeded better. He gave a strange little laugh. “I see you don’t believe me.” “No: I don’t believe you,” I answered bluntly, “and I don’t know why you should want me to.” “I suppose you think it is pleasant to be taken for a coward?” “I’m sure it isn’t pleasant; but I can’t imagine that it matters greatly to you what I think.” “Of course, if I hadn’t done what I did, you wouldn’t have had _your_ particular little swagger!” “Isn’t that rather a rotten sort of thing to say?” I answered as I got up. “I think I’ll move on. Come, Tony.” Gerald began to apologize. “Oh, it’s all right,” I said, coldly, leaving him there. CHAPTER XV