“Won't you smoke?” he asked.
The stranger accepted a cigarette from the case held out to him; and as he did so the extraordinary likeness to himself struck Chilcote with added force. Involuntarily he put out his hand and touched the other's arm.
“It's my nerves!” he said, in explanation. “They make me want to feel that you are substantial. Nerves play such beastly tricks!” He laughed awkwardly.
The other glanced up. His expression on the moment was slightly surprised, slightly contemptuous, but he changed it instantly to conventional interest. “I am afraid I am not an authority on nerves,” he said.
But Chilcote was preoccupied. His thoughts had turned into another channel.
“How old are you?” he asked, suddenly.
The other did not answer immediately. “My age?” he said at last, slowly. “Oh, I believe I shall be thirty-six to-morrow—to be quite accurate.”
Chilcote lifted his head quickly.
“Why do you use that tone?” he asked. “I am six months older than you, and I only wish it was six years. Six years nearer oblivion—”
Again a slight incredulous contempt crossed the other's eyes. “Oblivion?” he said. “Where are your ambitions?”