Victor's eyes had a look of amusement, of mockery. "Thank you," he said.
She, the sensitive, was on the alert at once. "Didn't you want me to thank him?"
Victor did not answer. In the same amused way he went on: "So they carried him on their shoulders—him and that other defender of the rights of the people, Hugo Galland? I should like to have seen. It was a memorable spectacle."
"You are laughing at it," exclaimed the girl. "Why?"
"You certainly are taking the news very queer, Victor," said Colman. Then to Selma, "When I told him he got white and I thought I'd have to send for Doctor Charlton."
"Well—joy never kills," said Victor mockingly. "I don't want to keep you, Tom—Selma'll sit with me."
When they were alone, Victor again closed his eyes and resumed that silent drumming upon the counterpane. Selma watched the restless fingers as if she hoped they would disclose to her the puzzling secret of Victor's thoughts. But she did not interrupt.
That was one lesson in restraint that Victor had succeeded in teaching her—never to interrupt. At last he heaved a great sigh and said:
"Well, Selma, old girl—we've probably lost again. I was glad you came because I wanted to talk—and I can't say what's in my mind before dear old Tom—or any of them but my sister and you."
"You didn't want those injunctions and indictments out of the way?" said Selma.