"No."
There was a moment's silence. Duncombe walked to the window and returned.
"Andrew," he said, "doesn't what I told you just now make a difference?"
Andrew groaned.
"Of course it would," he answered, "but—I'm fool enough to feel the same about Phyllis Poynton."
Duncombe, in the full glow of sensations which seemed to him to give a larger and more wonderful outlook on life, felt his sympathies suddenly awakened. Andrew Pelham, his old chum, sitting there with his huge, disfiguring glasses and bowed head, was surely the type of all that was pathetic. He forgot all his small irritation at the other's obstinacy. He remembered only their long years of comradeship and the tragedy which loomed over the life of his chosen friend. Once more his arm rested upon his shoulder.
"I'm a selfish brute, Andrew!" he said. "Stay as long as you please, and get this idea out of your brain. I'm trying to get Miss Fielding and her father down here, and if I can manage it anyhow I'll leave you two alone, and you shall talk as long as you like. Come, we'll have a drink together now and a pipe afterwards."
He walked across to the sideboard, where the glasses and decanters were arranged. Then for the first time he saw upon the tray awaiting him a telegram. He gave a little exclamation as he tore it open.
Andrew looked up.
"What is it, George?" he asked. "A telegram?"