His fingers worked nervously, plaiting and unplaiting the fringe.
"You were burnt. Where was Nevill then?"
"He was here."
"Was he burnt?"
"No; but he might have been. He--he helped to put the fire out. Oh,
Louis, it's horribly hard on him!"
Stanistreet clenched his teeth lest he should blaspheme.
"How long have you known Nevill?" she asked, as if she had read his
thoughts.
"I don't know. A long time--"
"How many years? Think."
"Fifteen perhaps. We were at Marlborough together in seventy-eight."
"You've known him twenty years then. And you have known me--three?"
"Four, Molly--four next September."
"Well, four then. It isn't a long time. And you see it wasn't enough, to
know me in, was it?"
He said nothing; but the fringe dropped from his fingers.
"You were Nevill's best friend too, weren't you?"
"Yes. His best friend, and his worst, God help me!"
"I suppose that means you've quarreled with him? I thought I heard you.
But, of course, you didn't know."
"Forgive me, I did not." He had misunderstood her--again!
"Well, you know now. I wasn't worth quarreling about, was I?"
He got up and leaned out of the window, looking into the dull street that
roared seventy feet below. Then he sighed; and whether it was a sigh of
relief or pain he could not tell.
Neither did Mrs. Nevill Tyson in her great wisdom know.