So, when breakfast was nearly over, Roland, with his usual frankness, which almost bordered upon brutality at times, leaned his elbows on the table, settled his chin in his hands, and said: “Well, my dear Sir John, you have something to say to your friend Roland that you don’t dare put into words.”
Sir John started, and, from pale as he was, turned crimson.
“Confound it!” continued Roland, “it must be hard to get out; but, Sir John, if you have many things to ask me, I know but few that I have the right to refuse you. So, go on; I am listening.”
And Roland closed his eyes as if to concentrate all his attention on what Sir John was about to say. But the matter was evidently, from Sir John’s point of view, so extremely difficult to make known, that at the end of a dozen seconds, finding that Sir John was still silent, Roland opened his eyes.
The Englishman was pale again; but this time he was paler than before. Roland held out his hand to him.
“Why,” he said, “I see you want to make some compliment about the way you were treated at the Château des Noires-Fontaines.”
“Precisely, my friend; for the happiness or misery of my life will date from my sojourn at the château.”
Roland looked fixedly at Sir John. “The deuce!” he exclaimed, “can I be so fortunate—” Then he stopped, remembering that what he was about to say was most unconventional from the social point of view.
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “my dear Roland, finish what you were saying.”
“You wish it?”