Paul had the greatest difficulty in restraining himself from demanding how long she would be likely to stay there.
He felt much like one of those unhappy criminals who have been immured in a dungeon, the walls of which slowly close in and crush them.
Like one in a painful dream, he listened as affairs were laid before him, and dry, legal questions raised and discussed.
Every moment he resolved to plainly tell these calm, legal gentlemen how he was situated, or else to distinctly give them to understand that he would not undertake the responsibility.
Perhaps he was chiefly deterred by a vague feeling that he might place himself in a ridiculous position. It was one thing to kneel, as it were, at the feet of a mother, who might display either anger or sympathy, but would certainly be able to comprehend his wild story; but quite another to unveil his heart-secrets to the cool, critical eyes of those hard-headed, tranquil men of the law.
The partners, observing his wearied air, his total lack of interest, his abstracted replies, settled each mentally that Captain Desfrayne was not much of a man of business.
Frank Amberley alone watched him narrowly.
“He is not mercenary, that is clear,” Mr. Amberley thought. “What are his secret motives or reasons for such strange behavior?”
The interview ended, and Paul Desfrayne had made no sign, save of acquiescence.
Papers, memoranda of various kinds, deeds, leases, and other dry reading had been gone through, only bringing to him a bad headache.