Kirk noticed how sallow he had grown in the past few months, and how he had fallen off in weight. He looked older, too; his cheeks had sunken in until they outlined his jaws sharply. He seemed far from well; a nervous twitching of his fingers betokened the strain he had been under. He was quite as immaculate as usual, however, quite as polished and collected.
"How is our little 'stag' coming on?" he asked.
"Fine! Everything is ready," said Runnels. "You won't expect an elaborate layout; it's mostly cold storage, you know, but we'll at least be able to quench our thirst at the Central."
"Then it's really coming off? I was—afraid you'd forgotten it."
Cortlandt cast a curious glance at Kirk, who exclaimed, heartily:
"Well, hardly!" Then, as their prospective guest moved off, "What a strange remark!"
"Yes," said Runnels, "he's a queer fellow; but then, you know, he's about as emotional as a toad."
XXVI
THE CRASH
Kirk had no further chance of speaking with his wife, for after the dance she was whisked away, leaving him nothing but the memory of an adoring, blissful glance as she passed. With Runnels and Cortlandt and the rest, he was driven to the Hotel Central, where they found a very attractive table set in a private dining-room. It was a lively party, and Kirk's secret elation enabled him to play the part of host with unforced geniality. The others joined him in a hearty effort to show their guest the high regard in which they held him, and if Cortlandt did not enjoy himself, it was entirely his own fault.
Toward Kirk, however, he preserved a peculiar attitude, which only the young man's self-absorption prevented him from noticing. If he had been less jubilant, he must have felt the unnatural aloofness of the other man's bearing; but even had he done so, he would doubtless have attributed it to Cortlandt's well-recognized frigidity.