“Are you?” He looked at her with piercing eagerness; yet he could not, could not read what was in her mind.
But later, after she had said good-night and gone to bed, his mood of perplexity changed. Beyond a certain natural fatigue he felt himself no worse for the mountain adventure, but to brace himself after the strain he did what he had not often done at Roone’s—he went into the bar for a night-cap. The Roones were there with a few naval men and a fishing youth in plus-fours; they tried to get him into conversation, but he said little and stayed only for a few minutes. The fact was, he could not even think of anything but the talk he would have on the morrow.
Then he took his candle (Roone’s was old-fashioned enough for that) and went to his room on the first floor. He would get up early, he decided, and go to Mass—his first for so long—too long. He saw the moon and the clear sky through the window, promising another fine day. He saw the cruiser’s masthead light shimmering softly over the harbour. He undressed and got into bed and closed his eyes—the whisky had made him drowsy—and suddenly, falling asleep, he felt most magnificently and boyishly certain of everything, and especially that he had loved, in all the possible ways of love.
THE END
James Hilton, Without Armor
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