Three of my superiors died of 'em, and
I stepped right into their shoes. It pays, you see, if you can hold out.
People like a fellow who isn't always clamouring to come home--and you
bet I never did. But, finally, I took an overdue leave and a hunk of
savings and trekked back. I'd always planned it--a good time, you
know--but somehow it hasn't come off. I expect I left it too long. In
the end I didn't really want to come at all--wanted to lie down and die,
but hadn't the strength of mind to insist. I'd been in London a week
before I wrote you--just drifting round--too weak-kneed to take the first
step. I tore up that idiotic note three times."
"Well, as long as you posted the fourth effort," Stonehouse said, "it's
all right."
They fell then unexpectedly into one of those difficult silences which
beset the road of friends who have been separated too long. The past
stood at their elbow like an importunate and shabby ghost. And yet it
was all they had to lead them back into the old intimacy.
"We've got too much to say," Cosgrave broke out at last, with a painful
effort, "too much ground to cover--and I dare say we don't want to cover
it. If we'd written--but I never heard from you after that one
letter--after Miss Christine's death."
"I was ill," Stonehouse explained, eating tranquilly. "I got through my
finals with a temperature which would have astonished my examiners, and
then I went to pieces altogether.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233