Was Valentine then mad? and was the monstrous distortion of his brain playing upon the life of Julian, who, like the rest of the world, believed him sane?
The thought came to the doctor, and once it had been born it was often near to him. Yet he would not encourage it unless he could rest it upon facts. That a man should change was not a proof of his madness, however unaccountable the change might seem. The doctor watched Valentine, and was compelled to admit to himself that in every way Valentine seemed perfectly sane. His cynicism, his love of ordinary life, his toleration of common and wretched people, might seem amazing to one who had known him well years ago, but there were many perfectly sane men of the same habits and opinions, of the same modes of speech and of action. If the doctor's strange thought were to become a definite belief, much more was needed, something at least of proof, something that would carry conviction not merely to the imagination, but to the cool and searching intellect.
On this night of the first snow the doctor's thought moved a step forward towards conviction.
When he arrived at Julian's rooms, he was greeted by Valentine alone.
"Our host has deserted us," he said, leading the doctor into the fire.
"What, is he ill?"
"He has not returned. He went away last night—on a quest of a certain pleasure. This afternoon he wired, asking me to entertain you. He was unavoidably detained, but hoped to arrive in time for dessert. His present love's arms are very strong. They keep him."
"Oh!" the doctor said, slipping out of his cloak; "we dine here then?"
"We do, alone. I don't think we've dined alone since Julian and I came back from abroad, and you deserted your Russian."
"No. I will consider myself your guest."