Curtis vanished, and Jack, obeying the directions, came to a door slightly ajar. He pushed it wider, and went softly in.
It was a good-sized salon; empty, except for the presence of one man writing at a side-table. By build and bearing Jack recognised Ivor instantly; but finding himself unnoticed, he had a fancy not at once to make his presence known. He drew a few steps nearer, and then stood motionless. He had a very good side-view of the other.
Jack studied him gravely, recalling the splendid physique and health of the young Guardsman six years earlier. The physique was in a sense the same, and the fine carriage of head and shoulders remained unaltered; but the sharpened delicacy and pallor of the face impressed Jack painfully, as did a streak of grey hair above the temple, a stamp of habitual lassitude upon the brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made right hand, which moved the pen. Jack began dimly to understand what the long waiting and patience of these years had been.
Ivor seemed to become conscious of Jack's gaze. He laid down his pen, glanced round, and started up. "Jack! Is it possible?"
"Just arrived," remarked Jack, with an insouciance which he was far from feeling. "Come across Spain and France. Yes—wounded—but I'm getting all right. Always was a tough subject, you know."
"Where were you taken?"
"On the march, at Lugo. Two days off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of my men. Wounded in the leg first; then, as I was defending myself, a musket-ball broke my right arm. So I had to give in."
"You are lame still. Sit down. You a prisoner too! I hardly know how to believe it."
"Fortune of war, as our French friends would say. I've no right to complain. Had my share, though 'tis a shame to be cut off from more of it. Den, you are looking very far from well."
Denham did not heed the words. "What of Roy?" he asked. "We have had no home-news for ages."