Night had crept up sweetly from the street. The City brooded in memory of an August which had come like a woman’s madness. It was still warm. A breeze came dancing through the open window. The room where Tom sat rigid seemed faintly a-swing in a sea: the glow and scent and murmur of the City was a wave, heaving the room. The wind whipped it gently.
David came in and saw Tom sitting so strangely stiff; he stopped. Tom, this time, had not budged. He looked at David. He saw his open gentle face and its sweetness, he knew how unbearable it was that he should lose him.
“David, won’t you come and sit down?”
David came. Crossing the room, he stumbled on the rug.
“David ... what is there wrong between us?”
His head was turned toward his friend. David looked; there was Tom’s full face pleading toward him. His eyes were bright in the shadow: they glanced with a sharp pain and a great welling wish, like tears.
David’s hand instinctively went out: he rested it upon his own knee.
“I don’t know, Tom.... I don’t know.”
Very faintly he spoke. There was a warm moistness in his mouth.
“David, I am sorry! I am sorry for so many things. But I love you, David. I am your real friend.... You believe that, don’t you?”