“Yes, he thinks it a beastly hole. Ah, no,” Bernard added, “I have got it wrong.”
But it little mattered. Late that night, on his return to his own rooms, Bernard sat gazing at his fire. He had not begun to undress; he was thinking of a good many things. He was in the midst of his reflections when there came a rap at his door, which the next moment was flung open. Gordon Wright stood there, looking at him—with a gaze which Bernard returned for a moment before bidding him to come in. Gordon came in and came up to him; then he held out his hand. Bernard took it with great satisfaction; his last feeling had been that he was very weary of this ridiculous quarrel, and it was an extreme relief to find it was over.
“It was very good of you to go to London,” said Gordon, looking at him with all the old serious honesty of his eyes.
“I have always tried to do what I could to oblige you,” Bernard answered, smiling.
“You must have cursed me over there,” Gordon went on.
“I did, a little. As you were cursing me here, it was permissible.”
“That ‘s over now,” said Gordon. “I came to welcome you back. It seemed to me I could n’t lay my head on my pillow without speaking to you.”
“I am glad to get back,” Bernard admitted, smiling still. “I can’t deny that. And I find you as I believed I should.” Then he added, seriously—“I knew Angela would keep us good friends.”
For a moment Gordon said nothing. Then, at last—
“Yes, for that purpose it did n’t matter which of us should marry her. If it had been I,” he added, “she would have made you accept it.”