Both men felt uncomfortable.

Led by some sudden, ungovernable impulse, they had both gone further than their slight acquaintance justified.

Olva was convinced that he had made a fool of himself, that he had talked like a prig.

Lawrence was groping hopelessly amongst a forest of dark thought for some little sensible thing that he might say.

He found nothing and so relapsed, with false, uncomfortable easiness, into-- "I say, old man, have a drink." The rest of that conversation concerned football..