"When I go out to-day," says he at last, and stopped.
"When I go out to-day—" he began once more, and stopped again; then, with a sudden gesture, he thrust the miniature into my hand. "You and Bentley!" says he, and turned to the papers that littered the table. "You understand?" says he, over his shoulder.
"Yes," says I, from the window, gazing across the bleak, grey desolation of the park. "Yes, I understand."
"I've been setting my papers in order, Dick,—a hard business," says he, with a rueful shake of the head, "a hard business, Dick—and now I'm minded to write a few lines to her, and that methinks will be harder yet." And passing his hand wearily over his brow, he took up his pen.
"Oh Jack—Jack," says I, suddenly, "there may be hope yet—"
"None," says he, quietly; "I was ever a fool with the small-sword, as you will remember, Dick. But I do not repine—you and Bentley are left."
So I presently went up-stairs again, and this time I did not pass Bentley's door, but entering, found him already nearly dressed, and as I live!—a-whistling of his eternal "Lillibuleero."
"Bentley," says I, sharply, "you surely forget what day it is?"
"No," says he, reaching out his hand with a smile. "A Merry Christmas, Dick!"
But seeing my look, and how I shrank from his proffered hand, his face grew solemn all in a moment.