"Your whole army record. Your manhood. Your--" Carew hesitated; then
he nerved himself to speak out plainly; "your love for Miss Dent."
Weldon shut his teeth and drew in his breath between them, while the
dark red blood rushed across his face, and then died away, to leave
in its place a grayish pallor. He put out his hand, as if to ward
off something.
"For God's sake, don't!" he said huskily.
Carew watched him for an instant. Then he stepped forward and linked
his arm through that of Weldon.
"There's nothing doing now," he said quietly. "Let's go for a walk.
We can talk better, while we're moving, you know."
"But what is the use of talking?" Weldon objected listlessly.
Carew looked into the heavy eyes, the overcast face of his friend.
Not once during the past three weeks since Weldon's return from
Johannesburg had the cloud lifted.
"You must talk, Weldon," he said firmly. "If you don't talk, you'll
go mad. I've watched you, day after day, hoping you would speak of
your own free will. I have hated to urge you. It seemed rather
beastly to drive you into telling me things that are none of my
business. But they are my business, in a sense.
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