“Don’t be so afraid of hurting people’s feelings. I liked your confidence. I liked your optimism. I just came this afternoon to see whether a fortnight alone had damped it a little.”
Philip hesitated. It would be very pleasant to say that no amount of personal trouble could alter his point of view; it would be very pleasant to say that the drearier his personal life was the surer he was of his Creed. He hesitated—then spoke the truth.
“As a matter of fact, I’m afraid it was dimmed for a bit. Russia seemed so far away and so did England, and I was hanging in mid-air, between. But now—everything’s all right again.”
“Why now?... Because I’ve paid you a call?”
Uncle Timothy laughed.
Philip looked down at the little public-house. “I’m very glad you have. But this afternoon—it’s been the kind of day I’ve expected London to give me, it seemed to settle me suddenly with a jerk, as though it were pushing me into my place and saying, ‘There! now I’ve found a seat for you’.”
He was talking, he knew, at random, but he was very conscious of Uncle Timothy, the more conscious, perhaps, because he could not see his face.
Then he bent forward in his chair. “It was very jolly of you,” he said, “to come and see me—but tell me, frankly, why you did. We scarcely spoke to one another whilst I was at your sister’s house.”
“I listened to you, though. Years ago I must have been rather like you. How old are you?”
“Thirty.”