"I don't lay claim to your experience," said Denis forbiddingly. He attacked his confessions once more. "I had rather a rough time of it last autumn, one way and another. I—it—I—"
"You lost your faith," suggested Wandesforde, still grinning. "Lord bless you, my dear chap, I know! You left off going to Bredon and listening to the little blighter with the mustachios. He came to me about it—funked you, I suppose—and I had to send him off with a flea in his ear. Oh, Denis, when you go off the rails all the world stands to admire. Nobody would make a song about it if I stopped going to church. And then Evey Byrne appeared on the scenes, and there was a hectic interlude which ended in your both vanishing. You went back to Bredon, I know that; but what on earth did you do with her?"
"She went into a convent."
"No! did she really? Rum ending to an affair of that kind."
"It was not an affair of that kind."
What an expressive face his was, when he was not on guard! and how it changed at mention of Mrs. Byrne! Wandesforde could not imagine himself taking Evey Byrne very seriously, but he felt like a bull in a china shop among the reserves and scruples and delicacies of his partner's mind. He was, quite simply, very fond of Denis. He disliked serious scenes; in candid truth, he dreaded them; they did not do, when to-morrow you were flying to Aix and to-night you had been writing cheerful non-committal letters like that now lying on the table. But it was evident that Denis was quite beyond ragging and being ragged. The moment had come, his tongue was loosed, and he must speak. Wandesforde touched him gently on the shoulder.
"Go ahead, old Denis. I'm off rotting."
Denis looked up, and Wandesforde to his consternation saw that his eyes were full of tears.
"Wandesforde, did you ever hurt a woman—badly?"