"You stick close, Other Fellow," he said unsteadily. "I'm pretty lonesome; you're a help. But don't come now."
Pretty lonesome. Yes, that expressed the atmosphere of aloofness, the air of being suddenly walled around and set apart, that now marked the impulsive and social Corrie. It was with him when he came down to the dreary dinner, an hour later.
The one who failed to play out the wretched farce of customary life was Isabel. She kept her room, alleging illness, and did not appear to lend aid to the evening which the three spent in silent endurance of one another and their own thoughts. The very surroundings insisted on the image of Gerard; a book he had been reading lay open on the table, the music he preferred was waiting on the piano rack. At nine o'clock, unable to bear more, Flavia rose, hurriedly pleading fatigue. Corrie also rose with her to retire, or to escape.
"Wait," his father bade, at his movement, laying down a newspaper. "You will not be out with your automobile, to-morrow."
Corrie looked at him without rebellion or surprise, unflinching from the decision.
"I shall never drive a racing car again, sir," was his quiet statement.
And only Gerard could have gauged what that renunciation cost his fellow-driver.
Gerard, at that hour, was not conscious of many things. The night that was long at the rose-colored villa, was longer yet in the little farmhouse. But when the first pale light of dawn made the parlor windows grow into glimmering squares of gray, the patient suddenly spoke out of what was rather stupor than sleep.