O’Hara was several times hard put to it to keep from laughing out loud at his thoughts. The humour of the situation struck him forcibly. After fighting as grimly as these men fought, and after all that had transpired, that they should both sit down to supper as they were doing, appealed to him strongly. He had quite thought that my lord would incline to tragedy and refuse to stay an instant longer in the Duke’s house.
It was not until midnight, when everyone else had gone to bed, that the brothers came face to face, alone. The dining-room was very quiet now, and the table bore a dissipated look with the remains of supper left on it. My lord stood absently playing with the long-handled punch spoon, idly stirring the golden dregs at the bottom of the bowl. The candles shed their light full on his face, and Richard, standing opposite in the shadow, had ample opportunity of studying it.
It seemed to him that he could not look long enough. Unconsciously his eyes devoured every detail of the loved countenance and watched each movement of the slender hand. He found John subtly changed, but quite how he could not define. He had not aged much, and he was still the same laughter-loving Jack of the old days, with just that intangible difference. O’Hara had felt it, too: a slight impenetrability, a reserve.
It was my lord who broke the uncomfortable silence. As if he felt the other’s eyes upon him, he looked up with his appealing, whimsical smile.
“Devil take it, Dick, we’re as shy as two schoolboys!”
Richard did not smile, and his brother came round the table to his side.
“There’s nought to be said betwixt us two, Dick. ’Twould be so damned unnecessary. After all—we always shared in one another’s scrapes!”
He stood a moment with his hand on Richard’s shoulder; then Richard turned to him.
