“Take care? What of?”
Crocker pressed his arm convulsively.
“Don't be waxy, old boy,” he said; “I mean that you seem somehow—to be—to be losing yourself.”
“Losing myself! Finding myself, you mean!”
Crocker did not answer; his face was disappointed. Of what exactly was he thinking? In Shelton's heart there was a bitter pleasure in knowing that his friend was uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, a sort of aching. Crocker broke the silence.
“I think I shall do a bit more walking to-night,” he said; “I feel very fit. Don't you really mean to come any further with me, Bird?”
And there was anxiety in his voice, as though Shelton were in danger of missing something good. The latter's feet had instantly begun to ache and burn.
“No!”? he said; “you know what I'm staying here for.”
Crocker nodded.
“She lives near here. Well, then, I'll say good-bye. I should like to do another ten miles to-night.”