“It was good of you to come.”
In the darkness I heard a sigh; and Barbara laid her hand on mine:
“We’ve always been good friends, even if we have made rather a mess of our lives.” . . .
I could not hear what she said after that, for I had been caught unprepared by Sonia and was realizing now for the first time that it was a toss-up whether I saw Bertrand alive. My uncle was a man of almost fifty when I was born. For ten years I was frightened out of my wits by his huge stature and bellowing voice; for another ten I was humiliated by his brutal jests and blasting disparagement; then, as a young man, I rose in exasperation and trounced him till he roared with delight at my beating. From that unlikely beginning sprang a friendship in which Bertrand played the part of father, elder brother, political mentor and fellow-conspirator in my most impressionable years.
“I . . simply can’t imagine life without Bertrand,” I told Barbara.
“If you want me . . .”, she whispered.
Did even she know how the sentence would have ended? I was stunned by the thought of losing Bertrand; I clutched at any one who would take his place, clutching literally with both my hands about Barbara’s wrists. And she, for the first time in my acquaintance, was frightened.
“Does this mean . . .?,” I began.
“I won’t come into his room, of course,” she continued, in a superb recovery. “If you want me to fetch some one for a second opinion . . .”
“Does this mean that we’re going to make a new start?,” I persisted.