"So you were writing a life of me, old man?" said he.
Bethune stood, looking as if he had been convicted of the most abject folly. And English lightly flicked the scrap into the blaze:
"The life that counts is the life that no other soul can know," said he.
But he had no sooner said the words than he corrected himself, and his voice took that altered note which marked any reference to his wife.
"At least," he said, "no other soul but one."
Those friends, who were so much to each other, in speech communicated less than the most ordinary acquaintances. Bethune stood, in his wooden way, looking down at the armchair. Just now he had something to say, and it was difficult to him. At last, pointing to the hearth, as if he still beheld the fruit of his labour of friendship being consumed in it, he spoke, awkwardly:
"It did its work, though."
English flashed an upward look, half humorous, half searching.
"What did its work?"
"The—my—oh, the damned Life!"