“Yes, it is I! what is left of me, Len. You—you are looking well, old man. And the old room; how cheery it seems.”
And he laughed—the shadow of the old laugh—even more pitiable than tears.
“For Heaven’s sake be quiet; don’t speak just yet,” said Len, with a husky voice. “Sit down. You’ve frightened me, Jack. Have you been ill?”
“Slightly,” said Jack, with a smile.
“And where have you been? Tell me all about it—no, don’t tell me anything yet.”
And he went to the cupboard, and brought out the whisky, and mixed a stiff glass.
“Now, then, old man, where’s the cigars? here—here’s a light. Now then—no; take off your boots. I’ll tell Mrs. Brown to air the bed and get your dressing-gown. And what about supper?”
And with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, Len turned from the room.
“Staunch as a woman, tender as a man.” It was a wise saying, whoever wrote it.
Jack sipped his whisky and water, and smoked his cigar, and pulled himself together, which was just what Len wanted to get him to do; and then Len came back.