There was no sign of feminine occupation, and Guest felt staggered.
“Well,” said Stratton bitterly, “you do not answer me. What do you want?”
“You to be the same fellow I always knew. Why have you come here?”
“You are inquisitorial, but I’ll answer: Because it suits me. My rooms yonder are dark and depressing. I am ill, and want to sit here and breathe the fresh air and think. Is there anything wonderful in that?”
“No; but you need not play hide-and-seek with your friends.”
“I have no friends,” said Stratton coldly. “I am not the first man who ever took to a solitary life. It suits my whim. Now, please go and leave me to myself.”
“Very well,” said Guest, after a momentary hesitation; and he rose. “You have no friends?” he said.
“None.”
“Well, I have,” said Guest. “You are one of them, and you’ll tell me I’m right some day.”
Stratton did not take the hand extended to him, and Guest went out by no means disconcerted, but contented and pleased with his day’s work.