“I’m going to see the Colonel first,” said Bareton stubbornly.
“No, you’re not. You’re coming to the Club with me.” Fanshawe walked over, pulled his friend to his feet. “Come on, you old ass,” he said kindly. . . .
They went out.
“Poor devil,” said Peter, “he must have bolted straight here from Mess. . . .”
“And Fanshawe followed him.”
Both men, though neither would have admitted the fact to the other, were on edge.
“Fanshawe was right not to leave him alone,” went on Bromley. “You never know what a chap will do when he gets into that sort of state. Thank goodness, I’m a quiet old stick, I am.”
He shook his big frame; tugged at his moustache; sat down again. Peter lit a cigar. But neither Peter’s smoke nor Bromley’s book could keep Bareton out of their minds. He seemed to be still on the sofa, blazing tears in blazing eyes.
“Let’s call up a taxi and go into Brighton,” said Peter suddenly. “I can’t stick this room any more tonight.”
Bromley looked up from “The Newcomes”—“We’ll share it, then.”