“Hugo,” she awoke him softly. And he looked at her for the first time since Smith’s entrance, his eyes clung to her. A very fond gesture took her hand to his shoulder—the tall, thin, stooping man whose white face took a word as visibly as it suffered a headache. Hugo Carr found many things quite unbearable.
His eyes seemed to cling to her for a support against his thoughts.
“It’s ghastly,” he whispered. “Joan, don’t you see—it’s ghastly! Poor old Ralph—down there, all alone! While we up here——” He passed a hand over his mouth to stop its twitching; and it was as though his hand had put on it a bitterness which was not there before. “While we up here were making love—his best friend and his wife!”
Involuntarily he put the best friend first, for Hugo Carr loved his friends; and, for him, friendship was one of the first principles of the civilised state. That is how he saw the civilised state.
“Poor, poor Ralph!” she said ever so softly.
His eyes tore away from her face. As though they hadn’t been able to find there the support they needed.
“There are some things ...” he began feverishly.
“Oh, my dear!” Joan protested miserably, as though against the unbearable philosophy of it. But it is a mistake to protest against the unbearable philosophy of a man of honour.
“There are some things,” Mr. Carr insisted with feverish violence, “that are unpardonable and unmendable. And there’s no excuse big enough for them....”
He looked like a priest, a priest in the temple of friendship, burning incense to the ideal idea.... And Joan nodded, her eyes on him who saw nothing but the ruin of the ideal idea.