“Right-o!” The Englishman stretched out one gaitered foot and lighted a cigarette.  “I’ll tell you a secret.  When I grow savage in mood—­” his clear-eyed smile belied that state of mind—­“I just run in here for a bit of bear-baiting—­rather good sport—­bear-baiting.  This is a den of bears you know.  Oh, yes, rather!  They are all elderly bears, very crabbed and self-absorbed and very smart and immaculate—­but bears none the less.  Each has his particular chair, which to his own self-centered mind is his private pedestal.  They sit here with their manicured hands resting idly on their robust, waistcoated tummies and stare out on the world like little clay gods.”  He saw that the other man was following him with a forced and uninterested attention, yet he went on, not like Larry Kirk, but because he was leading up to a purpose of friendship.

“Well, old chap, I just pop in here and squat on one of these pedestals, d’ye see?  Presently its proper occupant comes in and glares at me from the door, puffing with indignation.  Inwardly he is saying, ’How dare you trespass, you bally young cub?’ and I pretend to be quite unconscious of his baleful gaze.  I know there’s really nothing he can do about it.  If he were in London, I expect he’d write to the Times.”

Thayre glanced up and started to add:  “There’s one now glaring at you,” but he quickly bit off the words, for he recognized the stout frock-coated figure of old Tom Burton.  Old Tom was progressing, for now before the lights were switched on something in his face told that the afternoon rubbers had not progressed without their libations.

After a long pause Haswell said in a heavy voice:  “I come here because I don’t meet many men who insist on talking to me.”

“Oh, I beg pardon, old chap,” Thayre hastily rose.  “I’m sure I didn’t mean—­” But before he could finish the big fellow put out a hand and gripped his arm until a pain shot to the elbow.

“You are the one man I do want to see, Norvil.  Even a miserable devil like me can talk to you, and there’s a thing I want you to do for me, if you will.”

“Name it.”

Haswell glanced wearily about the big room and assured himself that no one was near enough to overhear his unbosoming.  He still spoke in the dulled voice of a dulled heart.  His utterance, like his movements, was slow and labored.

“There are times when you’ve got to talk—­or get to feeling giddy and wrong in the head.  I’ve about cut most of my clubs, but I can’t cut meeting the men—­down-town.”

The Englishman nodded, but he said nothing.

“I’m getting rather sick of being asked—­” Len halted, then forced the words doggedly—­“how Loraine is and when I expect her back.  I—­well, I don’t expect her back, and it hurts like hell to say so.”

Norvil met the other’s eyes and read in them a fulness of dumb suffering, such as might come into those of a great, faithful dog.  His own question followed with a softness of assured sympathy.  “And, of course, you want her back?”