And there came a pause between us. I discovered that we were talking different lingoes. I leaned over towards him.
“Look here, Arthur,” I said in a lower voice, “what is it, and what do you mean? I’m all right, you know, and you needn’t be afraid of telling me. What d’you mean by—did I see anything?”
We looked each other squarely in the eye. He saw he could trust me, and I saw—well, a whole lot of things, perhaps, but I felt chiefly that he liked me and would tell me things later, all in his own good time. I liked him all the better for that too.
“I only meant,” he answered slowly, “whether you really saw—anything?”
“No,” I said straight, “I didn’t see a thing, but, by the gods, I felt something.”
He started. I started too. An astonishing big look came swimming over his fair, handsome face. His eyes seemed all lit up. He looked as if he’d just made a cool million in wheat or cotton.
“I knew—you were that sort,” he whispered. “Though I hardly remembered what you looked like.”
“Then what on earth was it?” I asked.
His reply staggered me a bit. “It was just that,” he said—“the Earth!”
And then, just when things were getting interesting and promising a dividend, he shut up like a clam. He wouldn’t say another word. He asked after my family and business, my health, what kind of crossing I’d had, and all the rest of the common stock. It fairly bowled me over. And I couldn’t change him either.