When they returned to Bloomsbury he went in to supper with her, as was his habit, and, as he hoped, Dudley was away up at Holloway. It was not until they had finished their meal, and the landlady had cleared away, that he attacked the subject; then, with characteristic directness, he said:
“Now, Hal, what’s the matter?”
“The matter?…” in surprise. “What can you mean, Dick? Why should anything be the matter?”
She tried to meet his eyes frankly, but before the searching inquiry in them her gaze dropped to the fire.
“Something is the matter, Hal. Just as if I shouldn’t know.”
She was thoughtful a moment or two, thinking how best to put him off the right scent; then with overpowering suddenness came the recollection of all the pleasure and interest and delight the lost friendship had stood for, and her eyes filled with tears. It was useless to attempt to hide them, so she contrived to say as steadily as possible:
“I am a bit down on my luck about something; but it’s nothing to worry about. Don’t take any notice; there’s a dear boy. I shall soon forget.”
“But why shouldn’t I take any notice? Don’t be a goose, Hal. Tell me what’s the matter.”
She was silent, and after a pause he added:
“I suppose it is Sir Edwin?”