“He—hadn't—any!”
“Oh, I see—a gentleman of property.”
Jeff hesitated, looked at Miss Mayfield hurriedly, colored, and did not reply.
“And lost his property, Mr. Briggs?” With one of those rare impulses of an overtasked gentle nature, Jeff turned upon her almost savagely. “My father was a gambler, and shot himself at a gambling table.”
Miss Mayfield rose hurriedly. “I—I beg your pardon, Mr. Jeff.”
Jeff was silent.
“You know—you MUST know—I did not mean—”
No reply.
“Mr. Jeff!”
Her little hand fluttered toward him, and lit upon his sleeve, where it was suddenly captured and pressed passionately to his lips.