“My dear fellow,” cried Baltazar, holding out both his hands, “it’s meat and drink to me.”
“You’ll take up the Far Eastern end of the thing,” said Weatherley.
“I’ll write about China till I’m dead, if you like,” said Baltazar, “so long as I don’t have to go back to the infernal country.”
Again, after the meeting, Baltazar returned to Godalming in a glow. Thanks to Weatherley, he had at last got a footing in the Great Struggle.
In a telephone talk with Marcelle he told her all about it. He heard a ripple of laughter.
“Where does the fun come in?” he asked.
Her voice said: “You’re so young and enthusiastic. You ought to be the son and Godfrey the father.”
“By the way,” said he, “what’s the matter with Godfrey? He’s about as cheerful as a police-court in a fog.”
Marcelle, who could not betray Godfrey’s confidence, attributed his depression to the tediousness of his recovery and the uncertainty of the future.
“Of course, of course!” replied Baltazar penitently. “I’m a selfish beast, never entering into other people’s feelings. I must brighten things up for him.”