Willie started forward a step or two, then ran to the gate and, leaning on it, watched the red lights as they fled away; and long after they were gone, he stood there, bareheaded, in the drenching rain. He did not think; he still saw her, still heard her voice, and watched her broad low brow. She still stood before him, not the fairest of women, but the woman who was for him. And the rumble of retreating wheels sounded again in his ears. She was gone.
How long he stood he did not know. Presently he felt an arm passed through his, and he was led back to the house.
Old Carlin took him through the hall into his own little study, where a bright fire blazed, and gave him brandy, which he drank, and helped him off with his wet coat, and put a cricketing jacket on him, and pushed him into an arm-chair, and hunted for a pair of slippers for him.
All this while neither spoke; and at last Carlin, his tasks done, stood and warmed himself at the fire, looking steadily in front of him, and never at his friend.
"You dear old fool," said Willie Ruston.
"Ah, well, well, you mustn't take cold. If you were laid up now, what the deuce would become of Omofaga?"
His small, sharp, shrewd eyes blinked as he spoke, and he glanced at Willie Ruston as he named Omofaga.
Willie sprang to his feet with an oath.
"My God!" he cried, "why do you do this for me? Who'll do anything for her?"
Carlin blinked again, keeping his gaze aloof. Then he held out his hand, and Willie seized it, saying,