They roared past and vanished, and into the empty
space of quiet there flowed back the undertones of the river, solitary
footfalls, the voice of the drowsing city. The loneliness became
something magical. It changed the colour of Cosgrave's thoughts. He
pressed closer to his companion, and, with his elbows on the balustrade
and his hands clenched in his hair, spoke in an awed whisper.
"It does seem worth while now. That's what's so extraordinary. I feel I
can stick anything--even being a Government clerk all my life. I don't
even seem to mind home like I did. I'm in love. That's what it is.
You've never been in love, have you, Stonehouse?"
"No."
"You're such a cast-iron fellow. I don't know how I have the nerve to
tell you things. Sometimes I think you don't care a snap for anything in
the world, except just getting on."
Robert Stonehouse hunched his shoulders against the wind. There was more
than physical discomfort in the movement--a kind of secret distress and
resentment.
"You do talk a lot of sentimental rubbish," he said. "It seems to me
it's only a hindrance--this caring so much for people. It gets in a
man's way. Not that it matters to you just now. You've got a slack
time. You can afford to fool around."
"You think I'm a milksop," Cosgrave said patiently, "I don't mind. I
dare say it's true. There's not much fight in me. I don't seem able to
do without people like you can. I think, sometimes, if I hadn't had you
to back me up I'd never have been able to stick things.
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