"No," answered Tredennis; "I had not been told of it."
The professor gave him a little impetus forward with the hand he still kept on his shoulder.
"Walk on with me," he said. "What I like is the deserted look of things, and the silence. There is nothing more silent and deserted than such a street as this at night. There is a quiet and emptiness about it which impress themselves on you more than the stillness of a desert. Perhaps it is the sleep around you in the houses,—the people who have lost their hold on the world and life for the time being. They are far enough away by this time, most of them, and we are no more certain where they are than we shall be after they have lain down for the last time. How did you find Bertha?"
His voice changed as he asked the question, dropping its key somewhat; and, quiet though its tone was, Tredennis thought he recognized a faint suggestion of consciousness in it.
"She looked very well," he answered; "and was very bright."
"She is generally that," said the professor. "Who was there?"
"A Mr. Arbuthnot."
"Arbuthnot! Yes; to be sure. He generally is there. He is a relative of Richard's. They are fond of him. I was to have been there myself, but I had a previous engagement. And I suppose they made light of each other, as usual?"
"You mean"—began Tredennis.
"Arbuthnot and Bertha. They always do it, and Richard looks on and enjoys it. He is a queer fellow."