“My dear old chap, in the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” cried Wither, putting down his hat and stick and coming towards him.
“Oh, nothing!” said Kent, who pulled himself together with an effort, rose, and broke into a forced laugh.
Wither looked at him steadily while he slowly drew off his gloves.
“That's nonsense!” he said quietly.
Then his sharp glance fell on the little crumpled handkerchief that lay beside the open letter on the table. His quick sense, aided by certain opinions he had formed long since, grasped the main feature of the situation.
He went over to where Kent was standing by the fireplace, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Never mind, dear old man, it will all come right.”
“It will never come right,” groaned Kent absently.
“It must. She must care for you in time.”
“How do you know what I am thinking of?” Kent burst out rather fiercely.