biggest sip of brandy-and-water he had taken yet. “It must have been horrible—horrible!” he added to himself, his dark eyes staring into the fire.
“Ah!” said I, “it was even more horrible than you suppose or can ever imagine.”
I was not thinking of myself, nor of my love, nor of any particular incident of the fire that still went on burning in my brain. My tone was doubtless confidential, but I was meditating no special confidence when my companion drew one with his next words. These, however, came after a pause, in which my eyes had fallen from his face, but in which I heard him emptying his glass.
“What do you mean?” he whispered. “That there were other circumstances—things which haven't got into the papers?”
“God knows there were,” I answered, my face in my hands; and, my grief brought home to me, there I sat with it in the presence of that stranger, without compunction and without shame.
He sprang up and paced the room. His tact made me realize my weakness, and I was struggling to overcome it when he surprised me by suddenly stopping and laying a rather tremulous hand upon my shoulder.
“You—It wouldn't do you any good to speak of those circumstances, I suppose?” he faltered.
“No: not now: no good at all.”
“Forgive me,” he said, resuming his walk. “I had no business—I felt so sorry—I cannot tell you how I sympathize! And yet—I wonder if you will always feel so?”
“No saying how I shall feel when I am a man again,” said I. “You see what I am at present.” And, pulling myself together, I rose to find my new friend quite agitated in his turn.
“I wish we had some more brandy,” he sighed. “I'm afraid it's too late to get any now.”
“And I'm glad of it,” said I. “A man in my state ought not to look at spirits, or he may never look past them again. Thank goodness, there are other medicines. Only this morning I consulted the best man on nerves in London. I wish I'd gone to him long ago.”
“Harley Street, was
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