The night that Shafto subsequently spent was wakeful and seemed endless; he tossed about on his hard bed and thumped the irresponsive pillow, paced his room from end to end, drank all the water in the carafe—and even encroached on the ewer; he felt as if his vitality had been sapped, that he had no energy with which to face his new position, nothing to which he could look forward, no gleam of hope and, as it turned out, no appetite for breakfast. Seated at table, he proved infectiously depressing and gloomily silent. On the way to the Underground, Sandy Larcher, who happened to be in exuberant spirits, noticed his cousin’s grave face and chaffed him about Cossie. (Sandy, a coarse-grained creature, knew no reserves, did not profess to be a gentleman, and had never heard of the word “tact.”) “And so you couldn’t sleep for thinking of her, eh? Ate no breakfast, only a bit of toast, and half a kipper; quite in a bad way, poor old chap.” “Come now, Sandy, none of that!” angrily protested the victim. “You are a sensible fellow, though you do play the ass; and must know as well as I do myself that you are talking through your hat. I swear on my word of honour, I have never made love to Cossie, I’d as soon think of making love to the parrot next door, and I have not the remotest idea of marrying her. Imagine marrying on a hundred and fifty pounds a year!” “Oh well, I couldn’t face it myself, old man,” generously conceded his companion, “but the mater and the girls are dead nuts on the idea; they are awfully fond of you, and say you are so mortal clever, so well-bred and such top-hole style, that you are bound to rise in the world; and Cossie is getting rather long in the tooth. Of course, I know as well as if you told me, how she rushes a chap, and writes silly notes, manicures his nails, and gives him flowers and cigarettes. She overdid it with Freddy Soames and got the knock; and now he is formally engaged, I expect she is mad keen to show that two can play at that game!” “I’m not for it, and that’s certain,” declared the other, with an emphasis that was almost violent. “I like Cossie right enough as a cousin, but I’m not a scrap in love. Why, we’ve not one single taste in common—bar tennis and walnut pickles! I hate saying all this to you, old man—it seems monstrously caddish, and really——” “Oh, don’t apologise,” interrupted Sandy; “I know Cossie and her little ways—you are not the first by a long way that she’s tried it on with.” “Couldn’t you drop her some sort of gentle hint? Do, like a good chap and say a word to my aunt? I’d stay away from ‘Monte Carlo,’ only that I’m drawn to play in this confounded tournament.” “No good! They wouldn’t listen to _me_; you must do the business yourself, Douglas, old man. Come on, hurry up, or we’ll miss our train!” and Sandy began to run.