“The Zulu chief is not likely to come to terms now?” said Markham.
“Impossible,” replied the other. “Quite impossible. In a few days there will, no doubt, be a call for volunteers.”
“For volunteers?” Markham repeated. “You will go up country at once, I suppose?” he added.
“Not quite as a volunteer, but as soon as I receive my letters by the mail that arrives in a few days, I shall be off to Durban, at any rate.”
“And you will be glad of it, no doubt. You told me you liked doing war-correspondence.”
“Did I?” said Harwood; and after a little pause he added slowly: “It's a tiring life this I have been leading for the past fifteen years, Markham. I seem to have cut myself off from the sympathies of life. I seem to have been only a looker-on in the great struggles—the great pleasures—of life. I am supposed to have no more sympathies than Babbage's calculator that records certain facts without emotion, and I fancied I had schooled myself into this cold apathy in looking at things; but I don't think I have succeeded in cutting myself off from all sympathies. No, I shall not be glad of this war. Never mind. By the way, are you going out to Dr. Glaston's to-night?”
“I have got a card for his dinner, but I cannot tell what I may do. I am not feeling myself, just now.”
“You certainly don't look yourself, Markham. You are haggard, and as pale as if you had not got any sleep for nights. You want the constitution of your friend Mr. Despard, who is breakfasting in the bar.”
“What, is it possible he is out of his room?” cried Markham, in surprise.
“Why, he was waiting here an hour ago when I came down, and in the meantime he had been buying a suit of garments, he said, that gallant check of his having come to grief through the night.”