Even then—after many months, in a drawing-room in peaceful Clapham—the young man's eyes hardened.
“Yes, I saw a good deal,” he answered.
Mrs. Agar leant back in her chair, drawing her handkerchief through her fingers with jerky, unnatural movements.
“And did you lose many friends?” she asked.
“Yes,” answered the young fellow, “in one way and another.”
“How? What do you mean?” She had a way of leaning forward and listening when spoken to, which passed very well for sympathy.
“Well, a time like the Mutiny brings out all that is in a man, you know. And some men had less in them than one might have thought, while others—quiet-going fellows—seemed to wake up.”
“Yes,” she said; “I see.”
“One or two,” he continued, “betrayed themselves. They showed that there was that in them which no one had suspected. I lost one friend that way.”
“How?”