"Yes, very. I always was. We used to spar, but we were good friends. We don't spar now; I wish we did. It's just iciness. But I'm very fond of him."
"Of course, if you feel like that——"
"I always felt like that, even—even long ago. I used to tell you I did. I suppose you thought that humbug."
"Well, it wouldn't have been very strange if I had."
"No, I suppose not. It must have looked like that. But it was true—and it is true. The only thing I've got left to care much about in life is getting to be friends with John again—and I don't suppose I ever shall." Her voice fairly broke for a moment. "That's what upset me so much when I saw those silly children at Kate Raymore's."
Caylesham looked at her. There was a roguish twinkle in his eye, but he patted her hand in a very friendly sympathy.
"I say, old John's cut me out after all!" he whispered.
"You're scandalous! You always were," she said, smiling. "The way you put things was always disreputable. Yes, it was, Frank. But no; it's not poor old John who's cut you out—or at least it's John in a particular capacity. Life's cut you out—John as life. John, as life, has cut you out of my life—and now I've got to live with John, you see."
Caylesham screwed up his mouth ruefully. Things certainly seemed to shape that way. She had to live with John. John's conduct might be unreasonable and unjustifiable, but people who must be lived with frequently presume on that circumstance and behave as they would not venture to behave if living with them were optional. John really had not a leg to stand on, if it came to an argument. But arguing with people you have to live with does not conduce to the comfort of living with them—especially if you get the better of the argument. He was exceedingly sorry for Christine, but he didn't see any way out of it for her.
"Of course there's a funny side to it," she said with a little laugh.