Wareham had a horrible impulse to cry out, “Fool!” and this to his friend. Instead of it, he said—“You’d better bottle up your gratitude till you know it’s due.” He would have liked to let out more, but how?
“I’m not afraid. And I tell you what, I’m glad for another reason. You can’t have seen her for all these hours without understanding something of her charm. Where are your prejudices now? But I won’t reproach you. You’ve done me too good a turn. By Jove, it’s hard work waiting, even if only a few hours!”
He had his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. Wareham pushed back his chair and stared at him with something of the feeling of a man who, worsted, yet will look his fate in his face. He knew his age—eight-and-twenty—but never before had he seen him as the very incarnation of youth. It could be read in every line, in the twist of his shoulders, in the spring of his thick wavy hair, in the attitude, half comical, half petulant. He was tall, and his shoulders prognosticated size; fair as a northerner, and clean-faced; grey-eyed and wide-mouthed. Wareham, with thirty not long left behind him, felt an absurd envy of his three years’ advantage. He stood up suddenly.
“Look here, Hugh, I’m done. I’m going to bed.”
“All right, old fellow. You do look a bit seedy. Shall I come up and see that they’ve treated you properly? Say the word, and I will.”
“For heavens sake, no.”
“You’d rather tumble in at once? Good. I haven’t said half there is in my head, but I dare say you think it’ll keep. I don’t know what I’ll do. Lie down, I suppose; but there’s a bath-house out there on the pier, and I feel more like a swim. You won’t try that instead?”
“Bed,” said Wareham laconically.
“Bed it is, then. I’d better show the way in this rabbit-warren. You’re close to me.”
“Kviknaes will come. He and I are old friends.”