"Like a man chasing an echo," repeated Ursula reflectively. "I understand. It is maddening. She must be clever—in her way."
"Or very simple. God knows which; I don't—and sometimes I think she doesn't, either." He made a gesture of dismissal. "Well, it's finished. I must pull myself together—or try to."
"You will," said his sister confidently. "A fortnight from now you'll be laughing at yourself."
"I am now. I have been all along. But—it does no good."
She had to go and dress. But she could not leave until she had tried to make him comfortable. He was drinking brandy and soda and staring at his feet which were stretched straight out toward the fire. "Where's your sense of humor?" she demanded. "Throw yourself on your sense of humor. It's a friend that sticks when all others fail."
"It's my only hope," he said with a grim smile. "I can see myself. No wonder she despises me."
"Despises you?" scoffed Ursula. "A woman despise you! She's crazy about you, I'll bet anything you like. Before you're through with this you'll find out I'm right. And then—you'll have no use for her."
"She despises me."
"Well—what of it? Really, Fred, it irritates me to see you absolutely unlike yourself. Why, you're as broken-spirited as a henpecked old husband."
"Just that," he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. "I don't know what the devil to do next. Everything seems to have stopped."