“No,” said Orme.
“So? Vell, all right.”
“I’m sorry I can’t wait,” said Orme. “I’ve done what I could, and I have a long way to go.”
“Sure! Dat’s all right!”
“Then thank you very much. Good-night.”
Orme walked briskly to the road and turned west. He felt assured that Arima would be looked after.
Following the road to the first crossing, he turned to the right. In a few minutes he saw the lights of the clubhouse, and a little later he stepped upon the veranda.
Many people were seated in the comfortable porch chairs. The charms of the summer evening had held them after their afternoon of play. And from one of the groups came the sound of a voice—a man’s voice—which Orme found vaguely familiar. He could not place it, however, and he quickly forgot it in his general impression of the scene.
In this atmosphere of gayety he felt strangely out of place. Here all was chatter and froth—the activity of the surface-joy of living; but he had stepped into it fresh from a series of events that had uncovered the inner verities.
Here the ice tinkled in cool glasses, and women laughed happily, and every one was under the spell of the velvety summer evening; but he had looked into the face of Love and the face of Death—and both were still near to his heart.