“Ideally happy,” continued Lightbody, more insistently.  “We had the same thoughts, the same tastes, we read the same books.  She had a mind, a wonderful mind.  It was an ideal union.”

“The devil, I may be all wrong,” thought De Gollyer to himself.  He crossed his arms, nodded his head, and this time it was with the profoundest conviction that he repeated: 

“You adored her.”

“I adored her,” said Lightbody, with a ring to his voice.  “Not a word against her, not a word.  It was not her fault.  I know it’s not her fault.”

“You must go away,” said De Gollyer, touching him on the shoulder.

“Oh, I must!  I couldn’t stand it here in this room,” said Lightbody bitterly.  His fingers wandered lightly over the familiar objects on the desk, shrinking from each fiery contact.  He sat down.  “You’re right, I must get away.”

“You’re dreadfully hard hit, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Jim!”

Lightbody’s hand closed over the book and he opened it mechanically in the effort to master the memory.  “This book—­we were reading it last night together.”

“Jack, look here,” said De Gollyer, suddenly unselfish before such a great grief, “you’ve got to be bucked up, boy, pulled together.  I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  You’re going to get right off.  You’re going to be looked after.  I’ll knock off myself.  I’ll take you.”

Lightbody gave him his hand with a dumb, grateful look that brought a quick lump to the throat of De Gollyer, who, in terror, purposely increasing the lightness of his manner, sprang up with exaggerated gaiety.

“By Jove, fact is, I’m a bit dusty myself.  Do me good.  We’ll run off just as we did in the old days—­good days, those.  We knocked about a bit, didn’t we?  Good days, eh, Jack?”

Lightbody, continuing to gaze at the book, said: 

“Last night—­only last night!  Is it possible?”

“Come, now, let’s polish off Paris, or Vienna?”

“No, no.”  Lightbody seemed to shrink at the thought.  “Not that, nothing gay.  I couldn’t bear to see others gay—­happy.”

“Quite right.  California?”

“No, no, I want to get away, out of the country—­far away.”

Suddenly an inspiration came to De Gollyer—­a memory of earlier days.

“By George, Morocco!  Superb!  The trip we planned out—­Morocco—­the very thing!”

Lightbody, at the desk still feebly fingering the leaves that he indistinctly saw, muttered: 

“Something far away—­away from people.”

“By George, that’s immense,” continued De Gollyer exploding with delight, and, on a higher octave, he repeated:  “Immense!  Morocco and a smashing dash into Africa for big game.  The old trip just as we planned it seven years ago.  IMMENSE!”

“I don’t care—­anywhere.”

De Gollyer went nimbly to the bookcase and bore back an atlas.

“My boy—­the best thing in the world.  Set you right up—­terrific air, smashing scenery, ripping sport, caravans and all that sort of thing.  Fine idea, very fine.  Never could forgive you breaking up that trip, you know.  There.”  Rapidly he skimmed through the atlas, mumbling, “M-M-M—­Morocco.”