Phil murmured almost inarticulate words of gratitude; but Acton, more
than a trifle disturbed at his own thoughts, interrupted hastily--
"Say no more about it, please, Bourne. You'd have done as much for any
one."
"Your hands are bleeding," said Phil, with immense concern.
"Nothing at all. I think the reins cut them."
Mrs. Bourne _would_ bind them. "Of course!" said she. "How blind of me
not to see that this gentleman is one of your schoolfellows, Phil."
"Mother," said Phil, "this is John Acton."
"I've heard Phil talk about your wonderful win at Aldershot. I suppose
you're great friends?"
The "great friends" looked on the ground rather guiltily, but Phil cut
in with--
"I say, Acton, you must come and have tea with mother and me in my den.
Can you?"
Acton said quietly, "All right, Bourne. Thanks, awfully." Then he added
under his breath to Phil, "If I can come as a friend?"
"On that condition," said Phil, "I'd like you to come."
The trio walked back along the road--a happy trio they were, too--and a
melancholy procession of injured horses and an angry coachman closed
their rear. The tea in Bourne's room was very successful, and I should
fancy that Hinton did more hard thinking and hard staring when he saw
Acton amicably seated with his feet under Bourne's table than he ever
did before. The minute he had permission, he flew down the corridor, and
exploded bombshell after bombshell among wondering Amorians.
"Acton and Bourne teaing together like two birds on a bough!" he gasped.
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