“This is like old times, isn’t it? Away back, I mean. Doesn’t this put you in mind of that little place outside Elmhaven where we used to drive for those wonderful shore dinners in our college days?”
Storm started almost guiltily, but George chattered on:
“What was the name of it?—Oh, Bailey’s! You remember it, don’t you, Norman?”
“Of course,” Storm responded cautiously. “We had some great old times there, didn’t we?”
“Rather.” A reminiscent glow came in to George’s faded blue eyes. “Pretty good crowd, too. I wonder what has become of them all?”
Storm’s hand trembled as he started to raise his glass to his lips, and he set it down hastily. Horton had uttered those same words only the night before! With an effort he collected himself and steadied his voice.
“Let’s see,” he began deliberately. “There were Swain and McKnight and Van Tries and you and I——”
He paused and George nodded.
“Swain and McKnight are gone, but you’re forgetting Caldwell and Horton. I haven’t heard of either of them in years, have you?”
Storm shook his head, unable to frame a word. In a quick revulsion of feeling, he wished fervently that he might change the subject, but his dry lips refused their office.