Frank blew a great cloud of smoke about his face, and through it he said: “Yes, I have seen a damned sight more than I deserved to see.”
“Oh, of course; I know that, my boy; but, so far as I can see, in another direction you are getting quite what you deserve: your wife and child are upstairs—you are here.”
He paused, was silent for a moment, then leaned over, caught his brother’s arm, and said, in a low, strenuous voice: “Frank Armour, you laid a hateful little plot for us. It wasn’t manly, but we forgave it and did the best we could. But see here, Frank, take my word for it, you have had a lot of luck. There isn’t one woman out of ten thousand that would have stood the test as your wife has stood it; injured at the start, constant neglect, temptation—” he paused. “My boy, did you ever think of that, of the temptation to a woman neglected by her husband? The temptation to men? Yes, you have had a lot of luck. There has been a special providence for you, my boy; but not for your sake. God doesn’t love neglectful husbands, but I think He is pretty sorry for neglected wives.”
Frank was very still. His head drooped, the cigar hung unheeded in his fingers for a moment, and he said at last: “Dick, old boy, I’ve thought it all over to-night since I came back—everything that you’ve said. I have not a word of defence to make, but, by heaven! I’m going to win my wife’s love if I can, and when I do it I’ll make up for all my cursed foolishness—see if I don’t.”
“That sounds well, Frank,” was the quiet reply. “I like to hear you talk that way. You would be very foolish if you did not. What do you think of the child?”
“Can you ask me what I think? He is a splendid little fellow.”
“Take care of him, then—take good care of him: you may never have another,” was the grim rejoinder. Frank winced. His brother rose, took his arm, and said: “Let us go to our rooms, Frank. There will be time enough to talk later, and I am not so young as I once was.”
Truth to say, Richard Armour was not so young as he seemed a few months before. His shoulders were a little stooped, he was greyer about the temples. The little bit of cynicism which had appeared in that remark about the care of the child showed also in the lines of his mouth; yet his eyes had the same old true, honest look. But a man cannot be hit in mortal places once or twice in his life without its being etched on his face or dropped like a pinch of aloe from his tongue.
Still they sat and talked much longer, Frank showing better than when his brother came, Richard gone grey and tired. At last Richard rose and motioned towards the window. “See, Frank,” he said, “it is morning.” Then he went and lifted the blind. The grey, unpurged air oozed on the glass. The light was breaking over the tops of the houses. A crossing-sweeper early to his task, or holding the key of the street, went pottering by, and a policeman glanced up at them as he passed. Richard drew down the curtain again.
“Dick,” said Frank suddenly, “you look old. I wonder if I have changed as much?”