Randall sat still; recollecting, he laughed,—a laugh that he tried to make natural.
“Oh, pshaw!” He laughed again. “You’re mixing up some of the novels you’re writing with real life. This sort of thing is nonsense, pure nonsense.” 124
“No, it’s so,” flatly. “I’ve tried hard enough to think it different, but I couldn’t because it is so. It’s hell, I say!”
“Don’t you love her, man?” abruptly.
“Love her!” Armstrong wheeled, his face almost fierce. “Of course I love her. A hundred times yes. I’m a cursed fool over her.”
“Sit down then and tell me just what’s on your mind. You’re magnifying a mole-hill of some kind into a snow-capped peak. Sit down, please. You—irritate me that way.”
A second Armstrong hesitated. His face a bit flushed, he obeyed.
“That’s better.” The brusqueness was deliberately intentional. “Now out with it, clear the atmosphere. I’m listening.”
Armstrong looked at his friend a bit suspiciously; but the mood was too strong upon him to cease now even if he would.
“Just what do you wish to know?” he asked in tentative prelude. “Give me a clew.”