“You’re allowed to go where you will?”
“Why, no! Douceurs are efficacious, however. Will you let me show you the way upstairs?”
Jack hesitated.
“No, I understand. Of course, you’d rather see them first alone; and I didn’t mean to go in. But you can’t mistake the room. First landing, first door to the right.”
Curtis vanished, and Jack, obeying the directions, came to a door slightly ajar. He pushed it wider, and went softly through.
It was a good-sized salon; empty, except for the presence of one man, writing at a side table. By build and bearing, Jack recognised Ivor instantly; but, finding himself unnoticed, he had a fancy not at once to make his presence known. He drew a few steps nearer, and then stood motionless. He had a good side-view of the other.
Jack studied him gravely, recalling the splendid physique and health of the young Guardsman six years earlier. The physique was in a sense the same; and the fine bearing of head and shoulders remained unaltered; but the sharpened delicacy and pallor of the face impressed Jack painfully, as did a streak of grey hair above the temple, a stamp of habitual lassitude upon the brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made right hand, which moved the pen. Jack began dimly to understand what the long waiting and patience of these years had been.
Ivor seemed to become conscious of Jack’s gaze. He laid down his pen, glanced round, and started up.
“Jack! Is it possible?”
“Just arrived,” remarked Jack, with an insouciance which he was far from feeling. “Come across Spain and France. Yes, wounded; but I’m getting all right. Always was a tough subject, you know.”