“Partly.”
“And what more, may I ask?”
Armstrong stretched back listlessly, his eyes half closed.
“Everything, it seems, to me to-night, every cursed thing!” Restless in spite of his seeming inertia he straightened nervously. His fingers, slender almost as those of a woman, opened and closed intermittently. “First of all, the manuscript of my new book came back this morning, the one I’ve been working on for the last year. The expressman delivered it just after you left. That started the day wrong. Then came a succession 92 of little things. Breakfast, with coffee stone-cold, and soggy rolls; I couldn’t swallow a mouthful. Afterward I cut myself shaving, and I was late for lecture, and there was no styptic in the house, and I got down to my class with a collar looking as though I’d had my throat cut. The lecture room was chilly, beastly chilly, and about half the men had colds. Every twentieth word I’d say some one would sneeze and interrupt. On top of this one chap on the front row had neglected to complete his toilet and sat there for half an hour manicuring his nails, every blessed one of the ten; I counted them, while I was trying to explain proximal principles. At noon we had some more of that abominable soup with carrots in it. Carrots! I detest the name and the whole family; and we’ve had them every day now for a week. After lunch another big thing. I’d applied for position as lecturer in the summer school, applied early. The president met me to-day and remarked casually, very casually, that the man for the place had already been selected. He was very sorry of course, but—Back at the department I found that Elrod, one of my assistants, was sick, and of necessity I had to take his place in the laboratory. Inside half an hour some bumpkin dropped an eight-ounce 93 bottle of sulphuretted hydrogen. It spattered everywhere—and the smell! I feel like holding my nose yet. Later the water got stopped up, and for love or money no plumber—” The speaker paused, his shoulders lifted eloquently. “But what’s the use of itemizing. It’s been the same all day long, one petty rasp after another. To cap the climax Elice is out of town. She’s got an English class in a high-school in a dinky little burg out about twenty miles and goes out there every Thursday. I forgot this was the day until I pulled the knocker. That’s all, I guess, except that I’m here.”
Roberts smiled, the deliberate smile of tolerant understanding.
“One of those days, wasn’t it,” he commented sympathetically.
“Yes,” shortly, “and it seems lately as though that was the only kind I had—seems as though it was not one but an endless succession.... It’s all so petty, so confoundedly petty and irritating, and the outlook for the future seems so similar.” Of a sudden the speaker arose, selected a bit of rice paper from the mantel, and began rolling a cigarette swiftly. The labor complete he paused, the little white cylinder between his fingers. A moment he stood so, irresolute or intentionally 94 deliberate; without apology or comment he poured a second glass of liquor even full from the red decanter and drank it in silence. “On the square, Darley,” he blazed, “I expected a lot from that last book, banked on it; and it’s gone flat, like the others.” He resumed his seat and the cigarette flamed. “I worked hard on it, did my level best. I don’t believe I can ever do any better—and now it’s failed miserably. It knocks my pins clean out from under me.”
For a time the room was quiet. Roberts did not smile this time, or offer sympathy. The occasion for that had gone by. He merely waited in the fulness of knowledge, until the first hot flood of resentment had cooled, until the inevitable reaction that followed was on. Deliberate, direct to the point, he struck.
“You’re satisfied I’m your friend, are you?” he asked abruptly.
The other looked his surprise.