“Yes, he’s dead.”
“May I ask, sir—pray forgive me—was he a great friend of——”
I glanced up at the portrait—the bright young face hanging on the wall opposite him.
“Of Charlie’s?” he said, but with a certain restraint. “O yes! Charlie and he were immense friends.”
I was silent a moment, struggling with my difficulty. He appeared to watch me, even with a painful interest.
“What’s on your mind, Richard?” he said at last.
The kind tone, the unwonted familiarity, loosened my speech. After all, was I not striking for the honour, the happiness of this good soul, to whom I owed all that of genial tolerance which had accepted and endured me?
“Can you tell me, sir,” I burst out with, in broken sentences—“will you tell me—I know I have no right to ask—the—the circumstances of—I really have my reasons, sir—I would not venture otherwise—the—the pain—and the impertinence——”
He put his hand across his eyes, and answered me quietly without looking up.
“What is it you wish to know?”