‘Let me think—I must have been just eighteen.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Twenty-two—very young—I only knew him for quite a short time; after that he went back to British Columbia. But I liked him so much—we were very great friends—so I’m hoping that you’re going to like him too, darling.’
‘Stephen, you are strange. Why haven’t you told me that you once had a very great friend—a man? I’ve always thought that you didn’t like men.’
‘On the contrary, I like them very much. But I haven’t seen Martin for years and years. I’ve hardly ever thought about him until I got his letter this morning. Now, sweetheart, we don’t want the poor man to starve—you really must go off and try to find Pauline.’
When she had gone Stephen rubbed her chin with thoughtful and rather uncertain fingers.
2
He came. Amazing how little he had changed. He was just the same clean-shaven, bony-faced Martin, with the slow blue eyes and the charming expression, and the loose-limbed figure that slouched from much riding; only now there were a few faint lines round his eyes, and the hair had gone snow-white on his temples. Just beside the right temple was a deep little scar—it must have been a near thing, that bullet.
He said: ‘My dear, it is good to see you.’ And he held Stephen’s hand in his own thin brown ones.
She felt the warm, friendly grip of his fingers, and the years dropped away. ‘I’m so glad you wrote, Martin.’