"If I did say the right thing, it was a most fearful fluke," I said, for I could not be silent. "I simply hate men who walk about patting themselves on the back because they have had what they call success with a remark."
He did not listen to what I was saying, but stood staring into the fire; at last he turned round and held out a hand to me.
"I must thank you," he began; "and there is one other thing I have got to ask you before I say good-bye. My father asked me to make you promise that you would never mention what I have told you about his life being saved by your father, or anything about him. It seems to be a sort of compact, I don't understand it. He doesn't want your people to know anything about me, but only you."
I promised, of course, but I felt rather bothered.
"We may meet some day in the street," he said, and he pushed his hand into mine; but I let it go, and told him to sit down again. For this last speech of his was annoying, he had evidently got a wrong idea of me.
"It is no use talking rot," I said. "To begin with, what on earth have you got to thank me for?"
"If Colonel Marten hadn't saved my father's life, I should never have been born," he said.
"And you have come to thank me for that?" I said, and I did not mean to be rude.
"I was told to, you see," he answered.
I looked at him and we both laughed, though I went on laughing long after he had stopped. The idea of me being thanked for anybody's existence was beautifully comic.