Howard went and sat down
moodily beside him. "An odd thing, a picnic," said Jack musingly;
"I am not sure it is not an invention of the devil. Is anything the
matter, Howard? You look as if things had gone wrong. You don't
mind that nonsense of Guthrie's, do you? I was an ass to get him to
do it; I hate doing a stupid thing, and he is simply wild with me.
It's no good saying it is not like, because it is in a way, but of
course it's only a rag. It isn't absurd when you do it, only when
someone else does."
"Oh no, I don't mind about that," said Howard; "do make that plain
to Guthrie. I am out of sorts, I think; one gets bothered, you
know--what is called the blues."
"Oh, I know," said Jack sympathetically; "I don't suffer from them
myself as a rule, but I have got a touch of them to-day. I can't
understand what everyone is up to. Fred Guthrie has got the jumps.
It looks to me," he went on sagely, "as if he was what is commonly
called in love: but when the other person is one's sister, it seems
strange. Maud isn't a bad girl, as they go, but she isn't an angel,
and still less a saint; but Fred has no eyes for anyone else; I
can't screw a sensible word out of him. These young people!" said
Jack with a sour grimace; "you and I know better. One ought to
leave the women alone; there's something queer about them; you
never know where you are with them."
Howard regarded him in silence for a moment: it did not seem worth
while to argue; nothing seemed worth while.
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