“How old are you?” Paul asked.
“Thirty-nine,” replied Dawes, glancing at him.
Those brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost pleading for reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in himself, to warm him, to set him up firm again, troubled Paul.
“You’ll just be in your prime,” said Morel. “You don’t look as if much life had gone out of you.”
The brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly.
“It hasn’t,” he said. “The go is there.”