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
[255]
