CHAPTER II

A QUESTION OF EXCHANGE

Most of us need an opposite to sit by the hearth with us sometimes, and to stir us to wonder or to war.  Julian was Valentine’s singularly complete and perfect opposite, in nature if not in deeds.  But, after all, it is the thoughts that are of account rather than the acts, to a mind like Valentine’s.  He knew that Julian’s nature was totally unlike his own, so singularly unlike that Julian struck just the right note to give the strength of a discord to the chord—­that often seemed a common chord—­of his own harmony.  Long ago, for this reason, or for no special reason, he had grown to love Julian.  Theirs was a fine, clean specimen of friendship.  How fine, Valentine never rightly knew until this evening.

They were sitting together in Valentine’s flat in that hour when he became serious and expansive.  He had rather a habit of becoming serious toward midnight, especially if he was with only one person; and no desire to please interfered with his natural play of mind and of feeling when he was with Julian.  To affect any feeling with Julian would have seemed like being on conventional terms with an element, or endeavouring to deceive one’s valet about one’s personal habits.  Long ago Julian and he had, in mind, taken up their residence together, fallen into the pleasant custom of breakfasting, lunching, and dining on all topics in common.  Valentine knew of no barriers between them.  And so, now, as they sat smoking, he expressed his mood without fear or hesitation.

The room in which they were was small.  It was named the tentroom, being hung with dull-green draperies, which hid the ceiling and fell loosely to the floor on every side.  A heavy curtain shrouded the one door.  On the hearth flickered a fire, before which lay Valentine’s fox-terrier, Rip.  Julian was half lying down on a divan in an unbuttoned attitude.  Valentine leaned forward in an arm-chair.  They were smoking cigarettes.

“Julian,” Valentine said, meditatively, “I sometimes wonder why you and I are such great friends.”

“How abominable of you!  To seek a reason for friendship is as inhuman as to probe for the causes of love.  Don’t, for goodness’ sake, let your intellect triumph over your humanity, Valentine.  Of all modern vices, that seems to me the most loathsome.  But you could never fall into anything loathsome.  You are sheeted against that danger with plate armour.”

“Nonsense!”

“But you are.  It sometimes seems to me that you and I are like Elijah and Elisha, in a way.  But I am covetous of your mantle.”

“Then you want me to be caught from you into heaven?”

“No.  I should like you to give me your mantle, your powers, your nature, that is, and to stay here as well.”

“And send the chariot of fire to the coach-house, and the horses of fire to the nearest stables?”