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Merriman has settled into a chair near the fire, book in hand and the day's newspaper tucked under one arm. But the fire seems to be more interesting than the book, most of the time.

Those who come close enough might notice a little paper poppy carefully pinned to the lapel of his suit-jacket.

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Gil's face darkens a little.

"Thank you. I'll take what encouragement I can, and I appreciate it."

A moment.

"Anne is still here, yes," he says. It's the "with you" part he's pretty sure isn't true anymore.

There is a pause, and when Merriman replies his tone is quieter, less formal and more...not quite friendly, but definitely sympathetic.

'You'll forgive me, Mr Blythe, if I overstep the bounds of our acquaintance, but over the years I have worked with a number of young men your age, and after a while one begins to recognise the signs that a friendship has grown into something more than friendship.' His gaze might be disconcerting, but it is anything but intimidating. 'As well as the signs that it might not be a mutual sentiment.'

Gil nods. "Thank you," he says, for the sympathetic tone, if nothing else.

"Anne is a remarkable person. And so long as she is happy, I am happy for her." A stock phrase, perhaps, but Gil doesn't mean it to be. It is said utterly sincerely.

It's a sentiment that Merriman has heard expressed before, but not with Gil's kind of sincerity.

(Which may very well raise his estimation of the young man's character by a notch or two.)

'It is a rare person who can say so, and mean it,' is all he says.

Gilbert shrugs. "She's the best friend I've ever had. And she can't or doesn't wish to see me as anything more. What is there to be gained by wishing her unhappy?"

A pause.

"Which is not to say that I'm happy for him."

Merriman says, a little wryly, 'It would be a very rare person who could go so far as that.'

The thought occurs to him that this young man would only be able to open the door when one of two scenarios were completed -- and though he would not place a wager on either, both possibilities bore watching.

'Friendship has its merits, in its own way. But then again, I have rather forgotten what it is like to be your age, Mr Blythe.'

"It does," he agrees. "And so I shall try to be content with being her friend."

The key word here being "try." Gilbert is starting to have some doubts about his ability to do that, over the long term, if things continue as they are.

His smile is small and wry. "Are you going to tell me this sort of thing will get easier as I get older?"

Merriman shakes his head. 'That, Mr Blythe, would be a falsehood. It does not become easier -- if it ever does, I would take that as a hint that your attitude towards such matters is in need of serious examination.'

He meets Gil's small smile with a wry one of his own.

'But I think that some of what you are feeling will be easier to understand.'

Gilbert is, with the vanity of youth perhaps, rather certain that he already understands what he feels. But all he says is, "Perhaps it will. Thank you."

A moment, and then he changes the subject, and none too terribly gracefully.

"I do hope your classes are going well, Professor Lyon."

Even if the segue is a little awkward, Merriman merely nods, and their conversation turns towards matters more academical and less personal.

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