“Yes, the world does look rather bright to me to-night, I’ll admit,” he acquiesced.
“Bright!” Armstrong laughed outright in pure animal exuberance. “It’s positively dazzling: the more so by comparison.” He looked at his companion with the frank understanding 304 of those long and intimately acquainted. “What a change a few short years can make sometimes, can’t they? What an incredible change!”
Harry Randall returned the look, but gravely this time.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking of that all the evening,” he said simply.
“So have I.” Armstrong laughed shortly; “that is, when I haven’t been too irresponsibly happy to think at all. Just to get my bearings I tried to fancy myself back where I was once when I came to tell my troubles to you; and went to pieces at the end of the narrative.” He gestured eloquently. “What a fool I was and what a liar to swear I’d never do any more literary work, or permit a book of mine to be published in any circumstances, ever!” Once more the gesture, ending in an all-comprehensive shrug. “Bah! I don’t like to think of it. The whole thing’s a nightmare, neither more nor less!”
Again Harry Randall did not smile.
“Yes; the past was a little that way,” he echoed again.
For perhaps half a minute Armstrong smoked in reminiscent gravity; swiftly as the shadow had intruded it passed. 305
“Let’s forget it,” he proposed, “forget it absolutely and never speak of it again. By the way, do you own this place now?”
“No; Roberts still holds it. I made him an offer before he went away last Summer, but he wouldn’t even consider it then. I’ll try again when he returns. Margery wants it badly.”