d heavily.

"So must I," Olva said, coming forward from his corner. Craven flung him
a frightened glance and then passed stumbling out of the door.

Olva caught him up at the bottom of the dark stairs. He put a hand on
Craven's trembling arm and held him there.

"I want to talk to you, Craven. Come up to my room."

Craven tried to wrench his arm away. "No, I'm tired. I want to go to
bed."

"You haven't been near me for weeks. Why?"

"Oh, nothing--let me go. I'll come up another time."

"No, I _must_ talk to you--now. Come." Olva's voice was stern--his face
white and hard.

"No--I won't."

"You must. I won't keep you long. I have something to tell you."

Craven suddenly ceased to struggle. He gazed straight into Olva's eyes,
and the look that he gave him was the strangest thing--something of
terror, something of anger, a great wonder, and even--strangest of
all!--a struggling affection.

"I'll come," he said.

In Olva's room he stood, a disturbed figure facing the imperturbability
of the other man with restless eyes and hands that moved up and down
against his coat. Olva commanded the situation, with stern eyes he
seemed to be the accuser. . . .

"Sit down--fill a pipe."

"No, I won't sit--what do you want?"

"Please sit. It's so much easier for us both to talk. I can't say the
things that I want to when you're standing over me. Please sit down."

Craven sat down.

Olva faced him. "Now look here, Craven, a little time ago you came and
wished that we should see a good deal of one another. You came in here
often and you took me to see your people. You were charming . . . I was
delighted to be with you."

Olva paused--Craven said nothing.

"Then suddenly, for no reason that I can understand, this changed. Do
you remember that afternoon when you had tea with me here and I went to
sleep? It was after that--you were never the same after that. And it has
been growing worse. Now you avoid me altogether--you don't speak to me
if you can help it. I'm not a man of many friends and I don't wish to
lose one without knowing first what it is that I have done. Will you
tell me what it is?"

Craven made no answer. His eyes passed restlessly up and down the room
as though searching for some way of escape. He made little choking
noises in his throat. When Olva had had no answer to his question, he
went gravely on--

"But it isn't only your attitude to me that matters, although I _do_
want you to explain that. B