CHAPTER IV
THE MAN IN PRINT
To have him standing there was wonderful; to look into his eyes, and feel his friendly clasp of her hand; to hear again the light-hearted voice and the light-hearted, gay little laugh——Well—it was just the Charlie of the woods and the fields and the sunshine of the old days. There seemed no change in him, save that he had a dainty suggestion of a moustache (she blushed that she should have noticed that, and then laughed because she had blushed), and his voice a little deeper. For the rest—simply happy-go-lucky Charlie Purdue of the woods and the fields and the sunshine.
He said over and over again that he was glad to see her; looked round the room in the firelight and lamplight, and said what a jolly place it was. And instantly it became a jolly place; the grey sobriety of it faded and was gone. The fire burnt brighter—the chairs were comfortable; it was a jolly room!
That was what Patience saw when she came in with a look of vacant surprise on her face at hearing the laughter. Came in, to be seized at once by Charlie, in that impetuous fashion of his, and kissed and hugged until the cap she had so carefully arranged was all awry. But even then it was only Charlie, and she scarcely dared frown at him.
"Well, if this isn't splendid!" he exclaimed. "To think of you being here all this time—hidden away like moles (although moles don't occupy top floors—generally—do they?)—and I knowing nothing about it. Moira grown a woman—and a pretty woman, too, my dear—and Patience looking younger than ever, especially with her cap on one side like that."
Even Patience laughed; his gaiety was infectious. She and Moira, exchanging smiles for perhaps the first time for months, bustled about to get tea ready; and Charlie Purdue, talking all the while, found out where the kettle was to be filled, and had it on the fire in no time, and assisted generally. To the scandal of old Patience (that is, had she had time to think about it), they found themselves all talking at the top of their voices, punctuated by Charlie's laughter from time to time. He had dashed in out of the world, and had seized them and shaken them, and put new life into them. Across the table under the lamp Moira found herself looking at him gratefully—telling herself, in a little whisper deep down in her heart, that the days of loneliness were over; that a friend had come to her at last, with the breath of the old days about him.
"And what are you doing, Charlie?" she asked at last.
"Oh, I'm studying medicine," he replied, with a grimace. "It was always a whim of dad's to make a doctor of me; and I hate it. It isn't what I was cut out for somehow; it's beastly work. Besides, when I'd finished boyhood I thought I'd left books behind; and here I am grinding away at them harder than ever, and trying for examinations—and—and failing," he added ruefully.