Tabs had almost forgotten that he had been the last to speak, when Adair repeated his exact words, "Except Phyllis!" And then, "Poor kid! She, too, is unhappy."
Through the marshy obscurities of his humiliation his conscience was building a path. With his two hands he crushed his topper back onto his head.
The act had the vehemence of decision. In the doing of it he dropped the roses to the floor. There they lay forgotten—so forgotten that he placed his foot on them without noticing.
"Home! Best be going home," he muttered.
Without further explanation, he drew back the latch and let himself out into the sunlit Court. Delaying long enough to pick up his hat and cane, Tabs followed.
Adair gave no sign of recognition as he caught up with him. Failing to hail a taxi, they boarded a bus. Tabs paid the fares. Adair sat like Napoleon after Waterloo, taking no notice of anything. It was the intensity of his thoughts that kept him silent—not moroseness.
They had reached Clapham Common and had come to his garden-gate, before he acknowledged Tabs' presence.
"I was a fool. I deserved it," he said sadly. "It's ended in exactly the way that any sane man would have expected."
Kicking the gate open, he passed up the path. From the Common Tabs watched him, till he was safely within the house and the door had shut.
As he turned away, he scarcely knew whether to laugh or feel vexed. The misfortunes of others can always be traced to folly; it is only our own misfortunes that are never deserved and never anything less than august. If Adair's love-affair had appeared ridiculous in his eyes, probably his own would afford materials for jest to some one else.