"Why, no," he answered--"that is ... I've heard...." he began to offer
good wishes.

"No, no," I interrupted him hurriedly, "not that. But I happen to know
that Gurnard is meditating ... is going to separate from you in public
matters." An expression of dismay spread over his face.

"My dear fellow," he began.

"Oh, I'm not drunk," I said bitterly, "but I've been behind the
scenes--for a long time. And I could not ... couldn't let the thing go
on without a word."

He stopped in the road and looked at me.

"Yes, yes," he said, "I daresay.... But what does it lead to?... Even if
I could listen to you--_I_ can't go behind the scenes. Mr. Gurnard may
differ from me in points, but don't you see?..." He had walked on
slowly, but he came to a halt again. "We had better put these matters
out of our minds. Of course you are not drunk; but one is tied down in
these matters...."

He spoke very gently, as if he did not wish to offend me by this closing
of the door. He seemed suddenly to grow very old and very gray. There
was a stile in the dusty hedge-row, and he walked toward it, meditating.
In a moment he looked back at me. "I had forgotten," he said; "I meant
to suggest that we should wait here--I am a little tired." He perched
himself on the top bar and became lost in the inspection of the cord of
his glasses. I went toward him.