In the silence Roberts glanced at the clock and arose preparatory to bed. Watching the familiar action, a new thought sprang full-fledged to Armstrong’s brain, a sudden appreciation of the unconscious dependence he had grown to feel on the other man. The thought took words.
“On the square, old man,” he said soberly, “I hate to have you go. It’ll be beastly lonely here without you to sit down on me and make me feel foolish.” He gestured in mute eloquence. “It means the end between you and me the moment you pack your trunk. We may both put up a bluff—but just the same it’s the end.”
Roberts halted thoughtfully where he stood.
“The end? I wonder—and who will be to blame?”
“Neither of us,” swiftly. “It was inevitable. We’ll simply drift apart. You recall I prophesied once before—”
“Yes, I recall.”
Armstrong started involuntarily. Another memory had intruded.
“You remember—something else I predicted, do you?” 103
A slow smile formed on Roberts’ lips.
“You said that sometime we’d hate each other, in the same measure that we were friends now.”