“Nonsense,” he refuted curtly. “You’re not the first man in the world who has done something to regret. Every one has in some way or another—and profited by the experience. It’s forgotten already, I say, man. Let it pass at that, and go ahead as though nothing had happened. By the way, have you had supper—or do you call it dinner?”
For the first time Armstrong looked at the speaker and, forgetting for the instant, he almost smiled. The question was characteristic.
“I’ve already dined, thank you,” he said. 276
Without comment Roberts called up the café and ordered delivered his customary busy-day lunch of sandwiches and coffee.
“I’m going East on the eleven-fifty limited to-night,” he explained, “and there are several things I’ve got to see to first.” In voluntary relaxation from work he slipped down in the big chair until his head rested on the back. Thereafter for a long time, for longer doubtless than he realized, he sat so, looking at the other man; not rudely or unpleasantly, but with the old, absent, analytical expression large upon his face. At last he roused.
“I suppose,” he began abruptly, “you’re wondering what it is I wish to speak with you about. I’ll explain in advance that it’s of your personal affairs purely, nothing else. Would you prefer me not to intrude?”
For a moment Armstrong did not answer, but with an effort he looked at the questioner directly.
“If it were a couple of days back,” he said, “I should have answered ‘yes’ emphatically. Now—” his glance wandered out the window, resting on the brick wall opposite, “now I hardly know. You’ve earned a sort of right to wield the probe; and besides—” 277
“Never mind the right,” shortly. “I tell you last night is forgotten. I meant to see you and have the same talk anyway—with your permission.”
Still Armstrong hesitated, looking steadily away. “You’ve condoned the fact, then, that I’ve cut you dead on the street regularly?”