There was a long silence. Hubert looked away into the fire. He saw, I think, traced in scarlet flames, the scenes he was going to describe to me; and I, gazing at him, wondered of what nature the change in my friend might be. That he had changed since we were together three years ago was evident, yet he did not look mad. His dark, clean-shaven young face was still passionate. The brown eyes were still lit with a certain devouring eagerness. The mouth had not lost its mingled sweetness and sensuality. But Hubert was curiously transformed. There was a dignity, almost an elevation, in his manner. His former gaiety had vanished. I knew, without words, that my friend was another man—very far away from me now. Yet once we had lived together as chums, and had no secrets the one from the other.
At last Hubert looked up and spoke.
“I see you are wondering about me,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I have altered, of course—completely altered.”
“Yes,” I said, awkwardly enough. “Why is that?”
I longed to probe this madness of his that I might convince myself of it, otherwise Hubert's situation must for ever appal me.
He answered quietly, “I will tell you—nobody else knows—and even you may—”