He was not used to these solemn talks, he
told himself irately. What a fool to try it! And how had Deborah taken it
all? He did not mind her laughter, nor that lighter tone of hers. It was
only her way of ending the talk, an easy way out for both of them. But what
had she thought underneath? Had his points gone home? He tried to remember
them. Pshaw! He had been too excited, and he could recall scarcely
anything. He had not meant to speak of Baird--he had meant to leave him
out! Yes, how he must have bungled it! Doubtless she was smiling still.
Even the news about himself she had not taken seriously.
But as he thought about that news, Roger's mood completely changed. The
talk of the evening grew remote, his family no longer real, mere little
figures, shadowy, receding swiftly far away.... Much quieter now, he lay a
long time listening to the life of the house, the occasional sounds from
the various rooms. From the nursery adjoining came little Bruce's piping
laugh, and Roger could hear the nurse moving about. Afterwards for a long
time he could hear only creaks and breathings. Never had the old house
seemed so like a living creature. For nearly forty years it had held all
that he had loved and known, all he had been sure of. Outside of it was the
strange, the new, the uncertain, the vast unknown, stretching away to
infinity....
Again he heard Bruce's gay little laugh. What did it remind him of? He
puzzled.
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