He grew conscious that Colonel Holles was staring at him, amazed by his sudden vehemence. He checked abruptly, and laughed.
“I grow hot for nothing at all. Nay, not for nothing—for you, old friend, and against those who put this deception upon you. You should not have come back to England, Randal. But since you’re here, at least do not woo disappointment by nourishing your hopes on empty promises.” He raised his glass to the light, and looked at the Colonel solemnly across the top of it. “I drink to your better fortune, Randal.”
Mechanically, without answering a word, the Colonel drank with him. His heart was turned to lead. The portrait Tucker had so swiftly painted of Monk’s soul was painted obviously with a hostile, bitter brush. Yet the facts of Monk’s life made it plausible. The likeness was undeniable, if distorted. And Holles—rendered pessimistic and despondent by his very condition—saw the likeness and not the distortion.
“If you are right,” he said slowly, his eyes upon the table, “I may as well take your advice, and hang myself.”
“Almost the only thing left for a self-respecting man in England,” said Tucker.
“Or anywhere else, for that matter. But why so bitter about England in particular?”
Tucker shrugged. “You know my sentiments, what they always were. I am no trimmer. I sail a steady course.”
Holles regarded him searchingly. He could not misunderstand the man’s words, still less his tone.
“Is that not.... Is it not a dangerous course?” he asked.
Tucker looked at him with wistful amusement.