"You're an ass, Bones!" he said angrily and hotly. "You're not only an ass, but an indelicate ass! Just oblige me by shutting up."
Bones closed his eyes, smiled, and put out his hand.
"Whatever doubts I had, dear old Ham," he murmured, "are dispelled. Congratulations!"
That night Hamilton dined with a fair lady. She was fair literally and figuratively, and as he addressed her as Vera, it was probably her name. In the course of the dinner he mentioned Bones and his suggestion. He did not tell all that Bones had said.
The suggestion of a day's motoring was not received unfavourably.
"But he can't drive," wailed Hamilton. "He's only just learnt."
"I want to meet Bones," said the girl, "and I think it a most excellent opportunity."
"But, my dear, suppose the beggar upsets us in a ditch? I really can't risk your life."
"Tell Bones that I accept," she said decisively, and that ended the matter.
The next morning Hamilton broke the news.
"Miss Sackwell thanks you for your invitation, Bones."
"And accepts, of course?" said Bones complacently. "Jolly old Vera."
"And I say, old man," said Hamilton severely, "will you be kind enough to remember not to call this lady Vera until she asks you to?"
"Don't be peevish, old boy, don't be jealous, dear old thing. Brother-officer and all that. Believe me, you can trust your old Bones."
"I'd rather trust the lady's good taste," said Hamilton with some acerbity. "But won't it be a bit lonely for you, Bones?"
"I mean three is a pretty rotten sort of party," said Hamilton. "Couldn't you dig up somebody to go along and make the fourth?"
Bones coughed and was immensely embarrassed.
"Well, dear old athlete," he said unnecessarily loudly, "I was thinking of asking my--er----"
"Your--er--what? I gather it's an er," said Hamilton seriously, "but which er?"
"My old typewriter, frivolous one," said Bones truculently. "Any objection?"
"Of course not," said Hamilton calmly. "Miss Whitland is a most charming girl, and Vera will be delighted to meet her."
Bones choked his gratitude and wrung the other's hand for fully two minutes.
He spent the rest of the week in displaying to Hamilton the frank ambitions of his mind toward Miss Marguerite Whitland. Whenever he had nothing to do--which seemed most of the day--he strolled across to Hamilton's desk and discoursed upon the proper respect which all right-thinking young officers have for old typewriters. By the end of the week Hamilton had the confused impression that the very pretty girl who ministered to the literary needs of his partner, combined the qualities of a maiden aunt with the virtues of a grandmother, and that Bones experienced no other emotion than one of reverential wonder, tinctured with complete indifference.