CONFIDENCE
seemed to me that we were not so good friends as we used to be; that something had come between us—I don't know what, I don't know why. I don't know what to call it but a sort of lowering of the temperature. I don't know whether you have felt it, or whether it has been simply a fancy of mine. Whatever it may have been, it's all over, isn't it? We are too old friends—too good friends—not to stick together. Of course, the rubs of life may occasionally loosen the cohesion; but it is very good to feel that, with a little direct contact, it may easily be re-established. Isn't that so? But one shouldn't reason about these things; one feels them, and that's enough."
Gordon spoke in his clear, cheerful voice, and Bernard listened intently. It seemed to him there was an undertone of pain and effort in his companion's speech; it was that of an unhappy man trying to be wise and make the best of things.
"Ah! the rubs of life—the rubs of life!" Bernard repeated vaguely.
"We mustn't mind them," said Gordon, with a conscientious laugh. "We must toughen our hides; or, at the worst, we must plaster up our bruises. But why should we choose this particular place and hour for talking of the pains of life?" he went on. "Are we not in the midst of its pleasures? I mean, henceforth, to cultivate its pleasures. What are yours, just now, Bernard? Isn't it supposed that in Paris one must amuse oneself? How have you been amusing yourself?"
"I have been leading a very quiet life," said Bernard.
"I notice that's what people always say when they have been particularly dissipated. What have you done? Whom have you seen that one knows?"
Bernard was silent a moment.
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