He was lying curled up, as usual, on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. Kent was brooding over the fire. Fairfax had been rallying him from a doctor's point of view, and he had answered vaguely, striving not to let his friend's rough kindness jar too unbearably. He felt relieved when the doctor was called out to see a patient, and Wither and himself were left alone together.
“I suppose I am making an ass of myself. I have never felt miserable before in all my life, and it must be that I am unused to it——”
“It gets in your way like a man's court-sword on the first time of wearing,” said Wither.
“Somewhat,” replied Kent, with a short laugh. He did not mind Wither's jesting. It came spontaneously from the small, bright-eyed man—was in fact his natural language. “Perhaps it does. I'll get over it some day.”
“It will be all right when she comes back.”
“She has come back.”
“When?”
“Nearly a week ago.”
“And how are matters going between you?”
“I haven't seen her yet,” said Kent moodily, staring into the fire. “That is to say, I have seen her. I have lain in wait for her, so as to catch a glimpse of her as she passed by. But I have not met her.”