Perhaps he was more than a little morbid. Men are apt to be so, when harassed overlong by care. And perhaps he made a mistake, shunning his friends and seeking an anodyne only in a wearying routine.
That afternoon the subject of the noon hour's chat came into David's quarters to ask a question about some drawings. The errand accomplished, he, too, lingered. He refused the chair David vacated and sat on the table.
"I heard you and Miss Summers talking a while ago," he said abruptly.
"You said you heard—" David looked up, self-conscious.
"I heard you laughing." Radbourne's eyes twinkled keenly down on his draftsman. "So you were talking about me?"
"There was nothing you couldn't have heard—without offense, sir."
"I know that. Miss Summers is a loyal friend."
"I hope the same can be said of me, sir."
"Would you mind," Jonathan asked, "not sirring me like that? That's a very fine young lady, Mr. Quentin."
"Evidently," said David, though with something less than his employer's enthusiasm.