“You must lead rather an isolated life, I should think,” observed Fenton with some embarrassment, as the two stood to hail the electric car that ran by Mrs. Granite’s humble door.
“We’ll talk when we get there,” replied Bayard, rather shortly for him. “The car will be full of people,” he added apologetically. “One lives in a glass bell here. Besides, I’m a bit tired.”
He looked, indeed, exhausted, as the electric light smote his thin face; his eyes glowed like fire fed by metal, and his breath came short. He leaned his head back against the car window.
“You cough, I see,” said Fenton, who was not an expert in silence.
“Do I? Perhaps. I hadn’t thought of it.” He said nothing more until they had reached his lodgings. Fenton began to talk about the wreck and the rescue. He said the usual things in the usual way, offering, perforce, the tribute of a man to a manly deed.
Bayard nodded politely; he would not talk about it.
Jane Granite opened the door for them. She looked at the minister with mute, dog-like misery in her young eyes.
“You look dead beat out, sir,” she said. But Ben Trawl stood scowling in the door of the sitting-room; he had not chosen to go to the service, nor to allow her to go without him. Jane thought it was religious experience that made this such a disappointment to her.
“Ah, Trawl,” said the minister heartily, “I’m glad to see you here.”