Edward raised hurriedly the only shield he could find. It happened to be the truth as he saw it.
“Oh,” he said, “of course, we’re all in love with her—and all hopelessly.”
Vincent perceived that this was truth, as Edward saw it.
“What are you going to do till your train goes?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Café, I suppose, and a vilely early dinner.”
“Let’s look in at the Musée Grévin,” said Vincent.
The two were friends. They had been school-fellows, and this is a link that survives many a strain too strong to be resisted by more intimate and vital bonds. And they were fellow-students, though that counts for little or much—as you take it. Besides, Vincent knew something about Edward that no one else of their age and standing even guessed. He knew that Edward was afraid of the dark, and why. He had found it out that Christmas that the two had spent at an English country house. The house was full: there was a dance. There were to be theatricals. Early in the new year the hostess meant to “
