Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself among the crowd with great dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself—the chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme—but that some news of him might now be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would certainly have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his spirits and enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one who could have known how the boy’s heart leaped at the very idea of a word about Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.
He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had assured himself that he did not expect, yet keen disappointment laid hold upon him when Ivor failed to appear.
Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months passed warmly, and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly his glance fell upon a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against a wall. A little child lay asleep in his arms, and Roy’s first impression was of somebody who was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full at the face without recognition, so much was it altered; the features sharpened into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile on some rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. “Poor fellow; he does look done!” thought Roy, and he went nearer.
“I say—hadn’t you better give me that little thing to hold?”
“Why—Roy!”
The voice too had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be mistaken.
“Den—you don’t mean to say——”
Their hands met in a prolonged grip.
“You’ve come back! I am glad!”
“Yes. How are you all?”