"I have something to say. May I come to you to-morrow?"
Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an appointment, and an hour was named at which Tifto might call in Carlton Terrace. He felt that he almost owed some reparation to the wretched man,—whom he had unfortunately admitted among his friends, whom he had used, and to whom he had been uncourteous. Exactly at the hour named the Major was shown into his room.
Dolly had said that he was shabby,—but the man was altered rather than shabby. He still had rings on his fingers and studs in his shirt, and a jewelled pin in his cravat;—but he had shaven off his moustache and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hang-dog look about him. "I've got something that I particularly want to say to you, my Lord." Silverbridge would not shake hands with him, but could not refrain from offering him a chair.
"Well;—you can say it now."
"Yes;—but it isn't so very easy to be said. There are some things, though you want to say them ever so, you don't quite know how to do it."
"You have your choice, Major Tifto. You can speak or hold your tongue."
Then there was a pause, during which Silverbridge sat with his hands in his pockets trying to look unconcerned. "But if you've got it here, and feel it as I do,"—the poor man as he said this put his hand upon his heart,—"you can't sleep in your bed till it's out. I did that thing that they said I did."
"What thing?"
"Why, the nail! It was I lamed the horse."
"I am sorry for it. I can say nothing else."