He was still in the arm-chair, and I again took to the couch.

I could see by the way he looked at me over his pipe that he was wondering whether I knew anything.

I don't think I ever liked my brother better than on that night; and I wanted him to understand that, whatever happened, it would make no difference between us.

But the affair upstairs was too delicate to talk of, and all I could do was to try to keep his mind from brooding on it, by making him tell me things about politics.

This is the kind of man my brother is.