Yet, even so, the doctor, as he looked pitifully and with a gnawing grief upon Julian, felt not the mysterious thrill communicated to him by Valentine. These two men, these old time friends of his, were both in a sense strangers. But it was as if he had at least heard much of Julian, knew much of him, understood him, comprehended exactly why he was a stranger. Valentine was the total stranger, the unknown, the undivined. Long ago the doctor had foreseen the possibility of the Julian who now stood before him. He had never foreseen the possibility of the new Valentine. The one change was summed up in an instant. The other walked in utter mystery. The doctor had been swift to notice Julian's furtive glance, and was equally swift in banishing all trace of surprise from his own manner. So they met with a fair show of cordiality, and Julian developed a little of his old cheerfulness.
"Val's dressing," he said. "Well, there's plenty of time. By the way, how's your Russian, doctor?"
"Better."
"You've cured him! Bravo!"
"I hope I have persuaded him to cure himself."
Julian looked up hastily.
"Oh, that sort of complaint, was it?"
He laughed, not without a tinge of bitterness.
"Perhaps he doesn't want to be cured."
"I have persuaded him to want to be, I think."