It depended on the countless times they had kissed and wrestled as tiny boys, slept in small beds alongside, refused-to “tell” about each other, and even now and then taken up the burden of each other's peccadilloes. They might get irritated or tired of being in each other's company, but it would have been impossible for either to have been disloyal to the other in any circumstances, because of that traditional loyalty which went back to their cribs.
Preceded by Miranda, they walked along the flower walk towards the Park, talking of indifferent things, though in his heart each knew well enough what was in the other's.
Stephen broke through the hedge.
“Cis has been telling me,” he said, “that this man Hughs is making trouble of some sort.”
Hilary nodded.
Stephen glanced a little anxiously at his brother's face; it struck him as looking different, neither so gentle nor so impersonal as usual.
“He's a ruffian, isn't he?”
“I can't tell you,” Hilary answered. “Probably not.”
“He must be, old chap,” murmured Stephen. Then, with a friendly pressure of his brother's arm, he added: “Look here, old boy, can I be of any use?”
“In what?” asked Hilary.