Julian was looking very fresh, vigorous, and full of life. There was a curious suggestion about him of alertness which was not without a certain excitement; and his tone and manner as he spoke were almost superabundantly frank and loquacious.
Ten days before, Loring had received a note from Mrs. Romayne telling him that Julian was going for a week’s holiday to Brighton, and that the alteration in his room must be completed if possible in his absence. “It is a sudden idea with him, apparently,” she had written; “but do let us take advantage of it.”
If Loring had had his own private notion on the subject of this sudden idea on Julian’s part he had made no sign to Julian’s mother; he had paid, in silence, his cynical tribute to the maternal wisdom which had presumably recognised the fact that if freedom is not granted it will be snatched.
Three days had now passed since Julian’s return, but it had happened—he himself could perhaps have told how—that until this Saturday afternoon he and Loring had not met. There was nothing in his face and manner at this moment, however, but the most lively, even demonstrative satisfaction; and without giving Loring time to answer his question he went on, with an ease and gaiety which were very like, and yet unlike, his mother.
“Where were you off to? The club? Come and have some lunch with me, do! I want to tell you how first-rate I think my room. I hear you’ve taken no end of trouble over it. It was awfully jolly of you, old man!”
“Glad you like it,” returned Loring nonchalantly. “Yes, I think it’s nice. But it was Mrs. Romayne who took the trouble.”
He was studying Julian keenly, though quite imperceptibly, as he spoke. The young man’s manner was assumed—of that Loring was quite aware. But what, exactly, did it hide? What exactly was the secret?
He debated this question calmly with himself throughout the lunch which they took together a little later on; interposing question and remarks the while into Julian’s flow of fluent talk and laughter. About Brighton, in particular, Julian was full of chatter; and as he wound up a vivacious description of his doings there, Loring commented mentally:
“He hasn’t been to Brighton at all!”
Aloud he said, as genially as nature ever allowed him to speak: