There was no answer. To the frightened boy, unwillingly listening, it seemed a silence so dead that the thudding of his own heart must be heard. The night was calm again, yet the whole of life as he knew it was in disorder.
“Are you mad, Geoffrey?” asked William again, but in a different voice.
Geoffrey’s face seemed to be a little raised, a little paler, but again there was no answer.
William’s fist dropped; he stepped back, and passed his hand over his forehead in a bewildered way. “It’s a queer thing,” he said, rather unsteadily, “but I can’t hit you back. You’re like a younger brother, you know, Geoff. I can’t hit you.”
And at that a sort of fury seemed to flash into the younger man’s face. “You must,” he cried, hoarsely.
“Gad, but I can’t, my good fellow,” said William, with a twisted sort of smile, putting his hands in his pockets. “After all, ’tis not the first time we’ve hit each other.”
“This is different, and you know it.”
“Yes. But I daresay it was my fault. I had no right to question you.”
“You have no right to shame me so.”
“Hey?”