when one met them. I got up to go, feeling instinctively that he had come to confide in Uvo. But Berridge read me as quickly as I read him.
"Don't you go on my account," said he gloomily. "I've nothing to tell Delavoye that I can't tell you, especially after giving myself away to you once already to-day. I daresay three heads will be better than two, and I know I can trust you both."
"Is anything wrong?" asked Uvo, when preliminary solicitations had reminded me that his visitor neither smoked nor drank.
"Everything!" was the reply.
"Not with your engagement, I hope?"
"That's it," said Berridge, with his eyes on the carpet.
"It isn't - off?"
"Not yet."
"I don't want to ask more than I ought," said Uvo, after a pause, "but I always imagine that, between people who're engaged, the least little thing - - "
"It isn't a little thing."
And the accountant shook his downcast head.
"I only meant, my dear chap, if you'd had some disagreement - - "
"We've never had the least little word!"
"Has she changed?" asked Uvo Delavoye.
"Not that I know of," replied Berridge; but he looked up as though it were a new idea; and there was more life in his voice.
"She'd tell you," said Uvo, "if I know her."
"Do people tell each other?" eagerly inquired our friend.
"They certainly ought, and I think Miss Hemming would."
"Ah! it's easy enough for them!" cried the miserable young man. "Women are not liars and traitors because they happen to change their minds. Nobody thinks the worse of them for that; it's their privilege, isn't it? They can break off as many engagements as they like; but if I did such a thing I should never hold up my head again!"
He buried his hot face in his hands, and Delavoye looked at me for the first time. It was a sympathetic look enough; and yet there was something in it, a lift of the eyebrow, a light in the eye, that reminded me of the one point on which we always differed.
"Better hide your head than spoil her life," said he briskly. "But how long have you felt like doing either? I used to look on you as an ideal pair."
"So we were," said poor Berridge, readily. "It's most peculiar!"
I saw a twitch at the corners of Uvo's mouth; but he was not the man for sly glances over a bowed head.
"How long have you been engaged?" he asked.
"Ever since last September."
"You were here then, if I remember?"
"Yes; it was just after my holiday."
"In fact you've been here all the time?"
"Up to these last few weeks."
Delavoye looked round his room as a cross-examining counsel surveys the court to mark a point. I felt it about time to intervene on the other side.
"But you looked perfectly happy," said I, "all the autumn?"
"So I was, God knows!"
"Everything was all right until you went away?"
"Everything."
"Then," said I, "it looks to me like the mere mental effect of influenza, and nothing else."
But that was not the sense of the glance I could not help shooting at Delavoye. And my explanation was no comfort to Guy Berridge; he had thought of it before; but then he had never felt better than the last few days in the country, yet never had he been in such despair.
"I can't go through with it," he groaned in abject unreserve. "It's making my life a hell - a living lie. I don't know how to bear it - from one meeting to the next - I dread them so! Yet I've always a sort of hope that next time everything will suddenly become as it was before Christmas. Talk of forlorn hopes! Each time's worse than the last. I've come straight from her now. I don't know what you must think of me! It's not ten minutes since we said good-night." The big moustache trembled. "I felt a Judas," he whispered - "an absolute Judas!"
"I believe it's all nerves," said Delavoye, but with so little conviction that I loudly echoed the belief.
"But I don't go in for nerves," protested Berridge; "none of us do, in our family. We don't believe in them. We think they're a modern excuse for anything you like to do or say; that's what we think about
"Don't you go on my account," said he gloomily. "I've nothing to tell Delavoye that I can't tell you, especially after giving myself away to you once already to-day. I daresay three heads will be better than two, and I know I can trust you both."
"Is anything wrong?" asked Uvo, when preliminary solicitations had reminded me that his visitor neither smoked nor drank.
"Everything!" was the reply.
"Not with your engagement, I hope?"
"That's it," said Berridge, with his eyes on the carpet.
"It isn't - off?"
"Not yet."
"I don't want to ask more than I ought," said Uvo, after a pause, "but I always imagine that, between people who're engaged, the least little thing - - "
"It isn't a little thing."
And the accountant shook his downcast head.
"I only meant, my dear chap, if you'd had some disagreement - - "
"We've never had the least little word!"
"Has she changed?" asked Uvo Delavoye.
"Not that I know of," replied Berridge; but he looked up as though it were a new idea; and there was more life in his voice.
"She'd tell you," said Uvo, "if I know her."
"Do people tell each other?" eagerly inquired our friend.
"They certainly ought, and I think Miss Hemming would."
"Ah! it's easy enough for them!" cried the miserable young man. "Women are not liars and traitors because they happen to change their minds. Nobody thinks the worse of them for that; it's their privilege, isn't it? They can break off as many engagements as they like; but if I did such a thing I should never hold up my head again!"
He buried his hot face in his hands, and Delavoye looked at me for the first time. It was a sympathetic look enough; and yet there was something in it, a lift of the eyebrow, a light in the eye, that reminded me of the one point on which we always differed.
"Better hide your head than spoil her life," said he briskly. "But how long have you felt like doing either? I used to look on you as an ideal pair."
"So we were," said poor Berridge, readily. "It's most peculiar!"
I saw a twitch at the corners of Uvo's mouth; but he was not the man for sly glances over a bowed head.
"How long have you been engaged?" he asked.
"Ever since last September."
"You were here then, if I remember?"
"Yes; it was just after my holiday."
"In fact you've been here all the time?"
"Up to these last few weeks."
Delavoye looked round his room as a cross-examining counsel surveys the court to mark a point. I felt it about time to intervene on the other side.
"But you looked perfectly happy," said I, "all the autumn?"
"So I was, God knows!"
"Everything was all right until you went away?"
"Everything."
"Then," said I, "it looks to me like the mere mental effect of influenza, and nothing else."
But that was not the sense of the glance I could not help shooting at Delavoye. And my explanation was no comfort to Guy Berridge; he had thought of it before; but then he had never felt better than the last few days in the country, yet never had he been in such despair.
"I can't go through with it," he groaned in abject unreserve. "It's making my life a hell - a living lie. I don't know how to bear it - from one meeting to the next - I dread them so! Yet I've always a sort of hope that next time everything will suddenly become as it was before Christmas. Talk of forlorn hopes! Each time's worse than the last. I've come straight from her now. I don't know what you must think of me! It's not ten minutes since we said good-night." The big moustache trembled. "I felt a Judas," he whispered - "an absolute Judas!"
"I believe it's all nerves," said Delavoye, but with so little conviction that I loudly echoed the belief.
"But I don't go in for nerves," protested Berridge; "none of us do, in our family. We don't believe in them. We think they're a modern excuse for anything you like to do or say; that's what we think about
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