And they had begun wrong. It is probable that neither of them had intended this. Both had probably dreamed of a very different meeting. But both alike had counted without that stubborn pride which will rise up at the wrong time and in the wrong place—the pride which Jack Meredith had inherited by blood and teaching from his father.
“I suppose you have dined,” said Sir John, when they were seated, “or may I offer you something?”
“Thanks, I dined on the way up—in a twilit refreshment-room, with one waiter and a number of attendant black-beetles.”
Things were going worse and worse.
Sir John smiled, and he was still smiling when the man brought in coffee.
“Yes,” he said conversationally, “for speed combined with discomfort I suppose we can hold up heads against any country. Seeing that you are dressed, I supposed that you had dined in town.”
“No. I drove straight to my rooms, and kept the cab while I dressed.”
What an important matter this dressing seemed to be! And there were fifteen months behind it—fifteen months which had aged one of them and sobered the other.
Jack was sitting forward in his chair with his immaculate dress-shoes on the fender—his knees apart, his elbows resting on them, his eyes still fixed on the fire. Sir John looked keenly at him beneath his frowning, lashless lids. He saw the few grey hairs over Jack's ears, the suggested wrinkles, the drawn lines about his mouth.
“You have been ill?” he said.