“Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding on his part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. That aggravates her unhappiness.”
“I'm sorry for her. But time wears away unhappiness of that sort.”
“I hope it will in this case—if it doesn't turn it to joy by bringing Davenport back.”
Turl was silent, and Larcher did not continue the subject. When the visitor was through with the pictures, he joined his host at the fire, resigning himself appreciatively to one of the great, handsome easy-chairs—new specimens of an old style—in which Larcher indulged himself.
“A pleasant place you have here,” said the guest, while Larcher was bringing forth sundry bottles and such from a closet which did duty as sideboard.
“It ought to be,” replied Larcher. “Some fellows in this town only sleep in their rooms, but I work in mine.”
“And entertain,” said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other things were placed on a little round table at his elbow. “Here's variety of choice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and a sandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me out of conceit with my own.”
“Why, you live in a good house,” said Larcher, helping himself in turn.
“Good enough, as they go; what the newspapers would call a 'fashionable boarding-house.' Imagine a fashionable boarding-house!” He smiled. “But my own portion of the house is limited in space. In fact, at present I come under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroom has supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of budding geniuses; but I prefer comfort to romance.”
“How did you happen to go to that house?”