"You shall not have to cut yourself in half for me, dear friend," he said, with that touch of foreignness in his manner which revealed itself at times—not infrequently when he was concealing some strong feeling. "We shall meet again—some day—Nan and I. But not now—not at present."
"She'll miss you, Peter. . . . You're such a good pal!" Kitty gripped his hands hard and her voice was a trifle unsteady. After Barry, there was no one in the whole world she loved as much as she loved Peter. And she was powerless to help him.
"You'll be back in town soon," he answered her. "I shall come and see you sometimes. After all"—smiling a little—"Nan isn't constantly with you. She has her music." He paused a moment, then added gravely, with a quiet note of thankfulness in his voice: "As I, also, shall have my work."
There remained always that—work, the great palliative, a narcotic dulling the pain which, without it, would be almost beyond human endurance.
* * * * * *
"Everything's just about as bad as it could be!"
Kitty's voice was troubled and the eyes that sought Lord St. John's lacked all their customary vivacity. The tall old man, pacing the quadrangle beside her in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, made no comment for a moment. Then he said slowly:
"Yes, it's pretty bad. I'm sorry Mallory had to leave this morning."
"Oh, well," murmured Kitty vaguely, "a well-known writer like that often has to dash off to town in the middle of a holiday. Things crop up, you know"—still more vaguely.
St. John paused in the middle of his pacing and, putting his hand under Kitty's chin, tilted her face upward, scrutinising it with a kindly, quizzical gaze.