I put down the pen with which I had been fidgeting all this time, got up and went and stood by him on the hearthrug.
“Lathom,” I said, “why did you come here?”
He looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was on the point of getting something off his chest. I had a horrible fear of what it might be. If he had spoken, I really do not know what I should have said or done. I might—I don’t know. I was really quite horribly frightened.
But nothing came of it. He shifted his gaze and said, in a curious, embarrassed way:
“I’ve told you. I wanted to know what you’d done with Harrison—to find out how the matter stood. Afraid it’s been awkward for you. I didn’t quite realise. It can’t be helped. He’d have to know sometime, anyhow. I’d better be going.”
He held out his hand. In the state things were in, I could not take it. Either I was being a perfect Judas Iscariot, in which case I hadn’t the face to give him my hand, or else he was, in which case I felt I would rather be excused. It was all so involved that at the moment I was completely incapable of deciding anything.
“Oh!” he said. “I’ve said one or two things, haven’t I? All right. Sulk about it if you like. I’m damned if I care.”
He slammed out. After a moment I went after him. “Lathom!” I called.
I don’t know what I meant to say to him. The only answer was the hang of the outer door.