Turquand shivered, and said that he should.
"You aren't cold?"
"Cold? Not a bit—no. You were saying—-?"
"I don't know, I wasn't saying anything particular. I'll write you from Mentone, old fellow—not at once, but you shall have a line."
"Thanks," answered Turquand; "be glad to hear from you."
"Not that there'll be anything to say."
"No, of course not. Still, you may just as well twaddle, if you will."
There was a pause, while the pair smoked slowly, each busy with his thoughts, and considering if anything of what he felt could be said without its sounding sentimental. Both were remembering that they would never be sitting at home together in the room again, and though it had many faults, it assumed to the one who was leaving it a "tender grace" now. He had written his novel at that table; his first review had come to him here. Associations crept out and trailed across the floor; he felt that this room must always contain an integral portion of his life. And Turquand would miss him.
"Be dull for you to-morrow evening, rather, I'm afraid, won't it?" he said in a burst.
"Oh, I was alone while you were at Dieppe, you know. I shall jog along all right.... You've bought a desk for yourself, haven't you?"