“Oh, well!” said Kent a little huskily, and throwing his head back with a gesture of impatience, “I can't hide it. What would be the good? I have found out that she is a friend no longer, that what you were saying the other night is true--and I feel a brute! My God, what a brute I feel!” Wither's mental balance was for a moment upset. He righted it after a moment with considerations of his friend's character. In many fragile, nervous bodies there is a delicacy of perception which often remains all the keener when protected by a shell of cynicism. “You want to be reasoned with gently, friend John,” he said. “You must not feel a brute when you love a woman as a man like you can love. It's the best and holiest thing on God's earth, believe me.” “But, Teddy, she is so frank, so trustful, so proud of our friendship--it can never be the same again--if I should tell her, she would hate me----” “You can bet your life she wouldn't!” murmured Wither. “She would go out of my life in indignation, and she would be right,” Kent went on. “She would scorn me for the feelings that I know now I have had all along for 'her. No; it is all over, all over. I can't meet her again. I think I shall go mad! I shall throw up everything and go away.” “You dear, foolish old chap,” said Wither, “can't you see that very little would make her in love with you, if she is not so already? Why should you two not get married?” “I marry!” gasped Kent, as if struck by a new idea. “I ask Clytie Davenant, with her beauty and intellect and genius, to come and share--this! Clytie Davenant marry me! Why, the idea is ludicrous--preposterous!” “If I were she, I should not think so,” said Wither affectionately. Kent shook his head gloomily, and kicked the smouldering coal into a fitful blaze. “No. Until she shows me unmistakably--which can be never--that she cares for me in that way, I would sooner bite my tongue out than tell her.” “Until she asks you to marry her, in fact! John Kent, you are two years older than I am, and three times as big. But verily you are a little child! And if you weren't,” he added impulsively, with a soft glitter in his elfin eyes, “you would not be the lovable old chap that you are! Good-bye!” “Oh, stay a little, Teddy!” cried Kent. “I'm not much company, but I----” “Come round with me and have some dinner, then,” interrupted Wither. “It will occupy your body--if not your mind. And it will be better for you than the bottled beer and sardines which you usually feast upon. I shall be quite alone and you can do some work for me.” “All right!” replied Kent dejectedly. “It does not matter what I do.” Wither turned his face to the fire, while Kent prepared to go out. When he turned round Kent was holding the cash-box in his hand. The handkerchief and letter were gone from the table, and Wither smiled inwardly. He had himself disposed of many such trifles in a similar way. Men are very much alike in several matters. CHAPTER XI.