"How ill he looks!" was Christopher's first thought. Perhaps Breton also was oppressed by the weather and indeed in the house, although the windows were open, it was stifling enough. "No, the man's in pieces." Christopher's look was sharp. He had never seen Breton, who was naturally neat and a little vain about his appearance, so dishevelled. His beard was untrimmed, his eyes bloodshot, his hair unbrushed, his face white and drawn and his mouth seemed, in that light, to be trembling. "Good heavens, man," said Christopher, "what _have_ you been doing to yourself?" Breton smiled feebly--"Oh, nothing. Don't badger me--I can't stand it." "Badger you? Who's going to badger you? only----" Christopher broke off, looked at him a moment, then put his hand on the other's shoulder. "Look here, old man, why have you left me alone all these weeks?" "Haven't felt like seeing anybody." "Well, you might have felt like seeing me. I've missed you. I haven't got so many friends that I can spare, so easily, my best one." "Oh, rot, Chris," Breton said almost angrily. "You know it's only the kind of interest you've got in all lame dogs that ties you to me at all." "You're an ungrateful sort of fellow, Frank. But no matter--I'm fond of you in spite of your ingratitude. Come in to dinner and see whether you can eat anything on this stifling night." It _was_ stifling, but oppressive with something more than the mere physical discomfort of it. It was a night that worked havoc with the nerves, so that Christopher, who had naturally a vast deal of common sense, found himself glancing round his shoulder, irritated at the least noise that his servant made, expecting always to hear a knock on the door. Breton contributed very little to the conversation during dinner. He ate almost nothing, drank only water, looked about him restlessly, muttered something about its being strangely close for March, crumbled up his bread into little heaps. When they were back in Christopher's smoking-room Breton collapsed into a deep chair, lay there, staring desperately about him, then, with a jerk, pulled himself up and began to stride the room, swinging his arm, then pulling at his beard, crying out at last, "My God! it's stifling. Christopher--I must go out. I can't stand this. It's beyond my bearing." Christopher made him sit down again and then, feeling that he could not more surely hold the man than by plunging at once into what was, in all probability, the heart of his trouble, said: "Look here, Frank, I said I wouldn't badger you and I won't, but there's something about which I must speak to you. You must tell me the truth. There's more involved than just ourselves." Breton seemed instantly aware of Christopher's meaning. He sat up. "I knew," he said, "that I was in for a lecture. Well, it can't make any difference."