Then I told him of Bernoline. Some instinct warned me to do so, and the way his face cleared and the old affection returned confirmed my suspicions. Beneath all he had said (or not said) was something brooding. Only, in that case, the situation was more than ever fraught with danger.
We went back over the old days, when we four were the Littledale boys,—Big Dale, Little Dale, Tiny Dale, and Rossie, who was no Dale at all. With the clearing vista of years, I saw my brother as he was, and I was astonished to find in my new estimate a sense of personal superiority. He felt it, too, for once or twice he said something which showed me that he had a feeling of having stood still.
I told him of having seen Alan.
“I never liked him,” he said, without compromise, “and there’s no use pretending; but I’m glad he made good.” He turned to me, laying his hand on my arm for the first time. “Davy, there’s not been much luck in the family, has there? We’re out of existence—shot to pieces. And the other time doesn’t seem so very far ago,—the time when we romped and played like good, wholesome puppies. Rossie gone—Alan drifting about the world—you crawling back by the skin of your teeth—I suppose there’s no use arguing with you about your going back?”
“None.”
“Well, if we don’t wake up and get into it, I’m going, myself,” he blurted out. “The mater, of course, is all for pacifism, but as for the Governor, I believe he’s just hanging on until we declare war.”
“I believe so, too.”
“Must seem strange to you, here.”
“Yes—strange.”
We each wished the interview over, I felt. With all our attempts at restoring the old intimacy, there was a constraint on us we couldn’t shake off.