He was there, and at their knock admitted them, looking very large and out of place in the narrow hall. He was one of those men who seem to belong astride a high, bony horse, or in the solid armchair of a spacious London club. He shook hands with great heartiness, and led the way to the sitting room with a loud and reassuring tread.
“Visitors, Chip, old man,” he announced, and flung open the door.
Chip was lying stretched out on the sofa, pillows behind his head and a striped rug across his knees. His quiet manner of welcoming them seemed to Judy to contrast almost humorously with his friend’s bluff cheeriness.
He had a nervous little speech all ready for them.
“I’m ashamed,” he said, “to be the cause of all this bother. It’s most awfully good of you to come. You’ll forgive my not getting up, won’t you? I’m not allowed to, for some reason.”
“I should hope not,” said Noel, as they shook hands.
“As for being a bother,” Judy told him, “that’s the sort of thing invalids say when they know they’re not strong enough to be shaken. Major Crosby, I can’t—I can’t tell you how sorry we are.” She hurried on, fearful of showing emotion. “Let’s not say any more about that part of it. You know what we feel.…”
“And after all,” put in Major Stroud, after the manner of Major Strouds, “accidents will happen, ye know, and as I tell Chip, he simply barged into you.”
“Well,” said Judy, “it’s silly, both sides saying it’s their fault. But there are two good things about it. The doctor says you’ll soon be all right again, and—well, if it hadn’t been for what happened that night, we’d never have met, would we?”
“That’s a good effort, Judy,” Noel encouraged her. “I second everything you’ve said. But let’s cut out speeches now.”