“Yes; and it’s so. I feel it; why I don’t know, can’t imagine—yet. But it will come about as surely as to-morrow will come.” He looked at his companion steadily, unsmilingly prophetic. “Good-bye, friend Darley Roberts. You’re going—and you won’t return. Good-bye.”
An instant Roberts stood as he was, motionless; then he turned swiftly.
“You’re morbid to-night, Armstrong,” he returned slowly. “In the morning the sun will shine and the world will look very different. As for my leaving—you’ll find another man who’ll make a lot better mate than I am. I’m not a good fellow in the least.”
“I know it,” bluntly. “That’s why you’re good for me.” Unconsciously his glance travelled to the mantel, and shifted hurriedly. “I’m a kind of clinging vine, I guess. To change the figure of speech, I need a stiff rudder to keep me headed straight to windward. I’ll—miss you,” simply.
Roberts hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully. 104
“We can’t very well always be together, though,” he suggested at last slowly.
“No, we can’t. I realize it. It’s—Pardon an ass and go to bed, old man.”
For perhaps half a minute Roberts stood there, the fire from the open grate lighting his face, his big capable hands loose at his sides. He made no motion to leave, nor for a space to speak; characteristically abrupt, he turned, facing his companion directly.
“Armstrong,” he said, “I can’t work up to things delicately and have them seemingly happen by chance. Nature didn’t endow me with that ability. I have to come out with a broadside shot or not at all. I’m going to do so now. Why don’t you get married? Miss Gleason will be a better rudder immeasurably than I am.”
Involuntarily Armstrong flushed, slowly the color faded. He said nothing.