John laughed. “It pleases the old soul.”
“And keeps you in Kilburn,” said Herold.
“It might be something worse,” John growled. Then he banged the table with his fist. “Can you realize what it means to keep away from her? I think of her all day long, and I can't sleep at night for thinking of her. It 's idiotic, weak, disgraceful, wicked, any damned thing you like, but it's so.” And he glowered up into Herold's face. “I am eating myself out for her.”
“What about Stella?” Herold asked.
“That you can tell me. You've just come from her. I don't know. I 've kept away scrupulously enough, Heaven knows, and my letters are just footling things. But I've not heard from her for over a week. I waylay the postman and look over my letters like a silly ass of a boy.”
“Have you told her about your marriage?”
“Not yet.”
Herold drew a deep breath and turned away and pretended to study a proof of the contents-bill of the next number of the Review that was pinned against the wall. He had come there to ask that question. He had half expected and wholly hoped for an answer in the affirmative. Stella's knowledge might have accounted for her metamorphosis.
“She must be told at once,” he said, returning to the table.
“Why?”