“Sit down, will you?” said Edwin, shutting the door. “No, take the arm-chair. I’ll absquatulate on the desk. I’d no idea you were down. When did you come?”
“Last night, last train. Just a freak, you know.”
Two.
They were within a foot of each other in the ebonised cubicle. Edwin’s legs were swinging a few inches away from the arm-chair. His hat was at the back of his head, and Charlie’s hat was at the back of Charlie’s head. This was their sole point of resemblance. As Edwin surreptitiously examined the youth who had once been his intimate friend, he experienced the half-sneering awe of the provincial for the provincial who has become a Londoner. Charlie was changed; even his accent was changed. He and Edwin belonged to utterly different worlds now. They seldom saw the same scenes or thought the same things. But of course they were obliged by loyalty to the past to pretend that nothing was changed.
“You’ve not altered much,” said Edwin.
And indeed, when Charlie smiled, he was almost precisely the old Sunday, despite his metropolitan mannerisms. And there was nothing whatever in his figure or deportment to show that he had lived for several years in France and could chatter in a language whose verbs had four conjugations. After all, he was less formidable than Edwin might have anticipated.
“You have, anyhow,” said Charlie.
Edwin grinned self-consciously.
“I suppose you’ve got this place practically in your own hands now,” said Charlie. “I wish I was on my own, I can tell you that.”