Jerrold laughed in his agony. Yet he saw, as if he had never seen it before, Eliot's goodness and the sadness and beauty of his love for Anne. He had borne for years what Jerrold was bearing now, and Anne had not loved him. He had never known for one moment the bliss of love or any joy. He had had nothing. And Jerrold remembered with a pang of contrition that he had never cared enough for Eliot. It had always been Colin, the young, breakable Colin, who had clung to him and followed him. Eliot had always gone his own queer way, keeping himself apart.
And now Eliot was nearer to him than anything in the world, except Anne.
"I'm sorry, Jerrold."
"You're pretty decent, Eliot, to be sorry—I believe you honestly want me to have Anne."
"I wouldn't go so far as that, old man. But I believe I honestly want
Anne to have you…. I say, she hasn't gone yet, has she?"
"No. Maisie's keeping her for dinner in your honour. You'll probably find her in the drawing-room now."
"Where's Maisie?"
"She won't worry you. She's gone to lie down."
Eliot went into the drawing-room and found Anne there.
She looked at him. "You've been talking to Jerrold," she said.