"Cheltenham."
"Were you? I was at Clifton, went to Faraday House, after."
Pushing back his chair, Darwen, got up and went to the piano, he played some very slow, soft music, slow and soothing, it breathed the breath of peace into Carstairs' troubled soul.
"Robinson is only a fool," Darwen said over his shoulder. "I feel rather sorry for him—hasn't got the heart of a mouse—gets in a frightful stew when he's got to parallel himself—he's not a bad-hearted chap—done me one or two rather good turns."
"I thought he was alright too, at other times." Carstairs felt the spirit of peace stirring within him.
"It's kinder to him to let him drift, he doesn't mean anything—can't help himself—nervous, you know. I just smile at him."
"Suppose that is the best way. I'll have a shot next time, anyway. Made me rather ratty to-night."
Darwen played for some time in silence. "Chief come in at all?" he asked, at length.
"Yes. Came in and groused about a bit of brass work being dirty."
"That's like the chief. He'll never express an opinion on anything except its external appearance; very safe man, the chief, extremely safe, but stupid: he'll fail, not through what he does, but what he leaves undone." He ceased speaking, but the music went on slowly welling out, breathing good will and trust to all mankind. It died slowly away leaving the tired listener in a blissful state of rest. Darwen got up and looked at him with sparkling, observant eyes.