“I could have understood it if you’d had a regular bust-up. I should certainly have stayed at home if the governor hadn’t booted me out. You never had anything of that kind.” “No . . . not exactly. But the position was the same. I had a sort of . . . of emotional cold-douche. I was awfully sensitive about my mother. My father and I were all wrong. We’d really nothing in common. And it’s turned out all right. That’s the main thing.” “You’re a quixotic ass, my son. No . . . that’s not the word, but it’s the same sort of thing. It was really damned foolish of you.” “It’s jolly sound to stand on your own feet. You know where you are for the first time. It was only uncomfortable because he was really awfully decent. He is now: but he hasn’t the faintest glimmering of my point of view.” “They rarely have,” said W.G. gloomily. “Still, you haven’t made such an ass of yourself as I have.” “Something new?” “Yes . . . I’m married.” “Good God!” “It isn’t as bad as that,” W.G. chuckled. “I thought it would come as a bit of a shock to you.” “But why on earth—?” “Well, you see she was awfully unhappy at home. Brute of a father. And we simply got tired of waiting. That’s all. You must come and see us. She always remembered your clerking in her ward. We’re living in furnished rooms in Alvaston. It’s an amazing experience, you know, marriage. Quite different from anything else of the kind.” In view of W.G.’s experience in these matters Edwin was ready to take this for granted. “I should think it is a damned funny thing,” he said. They parted. There was something almost pathetic to Edwin in W.G.’s hot handclasp. He felt that W.G. was up against something far bigger than anything that had happened to him before: a strange, momentous adventure, yet one that was thrilling and, in a way, enviable. Once again he found himself admiring the big man’s desperate daring. W.G. with a wife, and probably, in a few years, children! . . . Assuredly they were all growing old. II