XV
Gordon asked him no questions for twenty-four hours after his return; then suddenly he began—
"Well, haven't you something to say to me?"
It was at the hotel, in Gordon's apartment, late in the afternoon. A heavy thunderstorm had broken over the place an hour before, and Bernard had been standing at one of his friend's windows, rather idly, with his hands in his pockets, watching the rain-torrents dance upon the empty pavements. At last the deluge abated, the clouds began to break—there was a promise of a fine evening. Gordon Wright, while the storm was at its climax, sat down to write letters, and wrote half a dozen. It was after he had sealed, directed, and affixed a postage-stamp to the last of the series, that he addressed to his companion the question I have just quoted.
"Do you mean about Miss Vivian?" Bernard asked, without turning round from the window.
"About Miss Vivian, of course." Bernard said nothing, and his companion went on. "Have you nothing to tell me about Miss Vivian?"
Bernard presently turned round, looking at Gordon and smiling a little.
"She's a delightful creature!"
"That won't do—you have tried that before," said Gordon. "No," he added in a moment, "that won't do." Bernard turned back to the window,
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