His hair was grey as an old man's hair. Durrance
had himself made so little of his misfortune this evening that Sutch had
rather come to rate it as a small thing in the sum of human calamities,
but he read his mistake now in Durrance's face. Just above the flame of
the candle, framed in the darkness of the hall, it showed white and
drawn and haggard--the face of an old worn man set upon the stalwart
shoulders of a man in the prime of his years.
"I have said very little to you in the way of sympathy," said Sutch. "I
did not know that you would welcome it. But I am sorry. I am very
sorry."
"Thanks," said Durrance, simply. He stood for a moment or two silently
in front of his host. "When I was in the Soudan, travelling through the
deserts, I used to pass the white skeletons of camels lying by the side
of the track. Do you know the camel's way? He is an unfriendly,
graceless beast, but he marches to within an hour of his death. He drops
and dies with the load upon his back. It seemed to me, even in those
days, the right and enviable way to finish. You can imagine how I must
envy them that advantage of theirs now. Good night."
He felt for the bannister and walked up the stairs to his room.
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