Stratton shook his head.
“Invalids must be humoured, I suppose. Sit where you are then, and try and have a nap. You’ll be calmer afterward—I hope,” he added to himself.
Guest changed the position of his chair, took up a book, and crossed to a lounge, but as he was in the act of turning it he saw that Stratton was watching him keenly.
“Don’t do that. I want you to leave me now.”
“I know you do,” said Guest quietly; “but I am not going.”
Stratton drew a heavy, catching breath, and lay back in his chair, while Guest opened the book he had taken at random, and read from it half a dozen romances which he made up as he went on. For he could not see a word of the printed matter, and in each of these romances his friend was the hero, who was being hunted to desperation by some woman with whom he had become entangled.
From time to time he glanced across at his friend as the hours glided by, hoping to see that he slept; but he always caught a glimpse of a pair of eager eyes watching him.
At last, about six o’clock, faint, weary, and oppressed by the terrible silence in the room, Guest laid down the book.
“Going?” said Stratton eagerly.
“No. Only to send for Mrs Brade.”