“Tom,” she said, “how odd you are! But you were always rather silent and undemonstrative. Are you not glad to see me? Think of the thousands of miles I have come to see you.” And as she spoke she laid her head confidingly against his shoulder.
“I—I—was out in the sun to-day, and my head feels queer,” he said, drawing back.
Poor Tom was going through the most awful moment of his life, and surely an unrivalled experience. But Tom was a gentleman, and could not bring himself to divulge the real truth.
“You must be tired,” he stammered with a desperate effort. “I’ll see you again, at dinner.” And without further remark he walked hastily out of the room.
“Hullo! What’s this?” inquired Jack Murray, as to his intense amazement he discovered his friend sitting in his bedroom, before his dressing-table. “Back already! Why are you not sunning yourself in the smiles of beauty?”
Then he caught a glimpse of his friend’s face. It was ghastly white. And, lo! on the table before him were arranged a revolver, and a case of razors!
“I’m taking my choice,” said Tom in a hoarse voice. “It must be one or the other.”
Jack Murray was justly alarmed at the expression of his eye, but did not lose his head for a second.
“What is it?” he asked coolly, reaching over and pocketing the razors. “The sun, acting on confirmed softening of the brain? or have you had a row already?”
“Row! Listen to me, Jack. I went over to see Lily, as I thought——”