Stimson was a privileged servant. He had traveled over half the globe with his young master, and had nursed him through the yellow fever in an African swamp.
“You are ill, master, I am sure.”
“Ill?” echoed Sir Harold. “No, I am not ill. I wish to heaven that I were sick unto death!”
It was a strange speech, but Stimson pretended not to notice it. He merely said:
“You will see Colonel Greyson, Sir Harold?”
“Yes, I will see him here, in my study,” was the gloomy reply, and when Stimson had gone he added:
“He it was who introduced us, and who more fitting to be the first to hear that we are parted forever?”
Then the colonel’s bluff tones fell upon his ears; and he felt his hand being shaken warmly.
“I have not seen much of you for weeks, my boy,” he was saying; “but suddenly determined to make an assault upon you. In your bower of bliss, presided over by I don’t know how many Cupids, you seem to forget that you are necessary, to a small extent at least, to your neighbors.”
Every word was like the stab of a knife, and Sir Harold, his heart too full for words, made a deprecatory gesture.