It was the beginning of personal confidence, the halting-point for conversation between these two. Both knew it and neither crossed the line. They merely waited until a digression should come naturally. Roberts it was who at last introduced 193 it, and in a manner so matter of fact that the other was all but deceived.
“Has Armstrong been doing anything lately in a literary way—anything, I mean, that justifies your opinion?” he asked abruptly.
“No, not that I know of; absolutely nothing.”
“You’re relying, then, on past impressions merely.”
“Yes; specifically the last novel he wrote,—the one of a year or a year and a half or so ago.”
“You haven’t by any chance a copy of the manuscript, I suppose?”
“No.”
“You could doubtless get it, however?”
“I think so—unless some time he became morbid and burned it.”
“He hasn’t done that; I know him. He might threaten; but to do it—he’d as probably go hungry. Get it some time, will you?”