Again there was a silence. David studied his old teacher attentively, as far as the half-light availed him. The young man was simply angry with a religion which could torment a soul and body like this. Ancrum had been 'down' in this way for a long time now. Was another of his black fits approaching? If so, religion was largely responsible for them!
When at last David sighted his own door, he perceived a figure lounging on the steps.
'I say,' he said to himself with a groan, 'it's John!'
'What on earth do you want, John, at this time of night?' he demanded. But he knew perfectly.
'Look here!' said the other thickly, 'it's all straight. You're coming back in a fortnight, and you'll bring her back too!'
David laughed impatiently.
'Do you think I shall lose her in Paris or drop her in the Channel?'
'I don't know,' said Dalby, with a curiously heavy and indistinct utterance. 'She's very bad to me. She won't ever marry me; I know that. But when I think I might never see her again I'm fit to go and hang myself.'
David began to kick the pebbles in the road.
'You know what I think about it all,' he said at last, gloomily. 'I've told you before now. She couldn't care for you if she tried. It isn't a ha'p'orth of good. I don't believe she'll ever care for anybody. Anyway, she'll marry nobody who can't give her money and fine clothes. There! You may put that in your pipe and smoke it, for it's as true as you stand there.'