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“Nor with any one else.”

Philip laughed. “Well, then,” he declared, “we have with us to-day a brand-new friend!”

But Catherine was clearly going to have things over and done with. “You mean,” she said courageously, “that you’re—glad, a little—to see us, but not—”

“Not the way I ought to be. Only in a vague uneasy dead way. Rotten, isn’t it? And brutal. And bound to hurt your feelings. But what can you expect? If I were to see a man cut in two by a bus on the Avenue I shouldn’t feel anything at all except a little distaste. There you have it. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“But the truth,” said Catherine, her eyes shining.

“Yes,” Stacey admitted. “There’s that to be said for it.”

Philip Blair tugged at his short blond moustache and stared at his friend wistfully. “You don’t hurt me, Stacey,” he said at last. “And it’s not true that you’re not fond of us. If it were true you wouldn’t have been so honest. How do I know what they’ve done to you? You’re all—seared over. Had to be, I suppose, or die. You’ll come back to us. Now tell us about all the outside things. First with the English.”