Hamilton appeared a little moved, but checking the emotion, continued:
“You! for—your—own—especial—gratification? And pray, when might you have accomplished that adroit and praiseworthy feat?”
“Last Friday,” said Louis, in so low a tone, that nothing but the silence that reigned could have made it audible.
“And what was your motive?” asked Hamilton, leaning back against the mantelpiece, and putting one foot on the fender behind him.
“Only a little fun!”
“Pretty respectable fun!” said Hamilton, contemptuously.
“Gratitude might have restrained you, one would think,” said Jones, “if nothing else would. A pretty return for all Hamilton's kindness, to set to work to lose him his prize!”
“I didn't, Jones,” said Louis, warmly; “I thought it was a letter; I didn't mean any harm. And as to gratitude—when Hamilton was kind to me, I was grateful—and I do feel grateful for his kindness now; but he has been unkind enough lately to make me forget that.”
“And reason enough he had,” said Meredith. “Unkind, indeed! why no one else stood your friend when we found out what a tell-tale you were.”
“I am sure nobody knew he was my friend then,” said Louis, assuming an air of independence that ill became him. “Only last Friday, he let me believe that Trevannion had the doctor's Rollin; he offered me his, but I wasn't likely to take that, and—” Louis hesitated, for Hamilton's eye was upon him so calmly and inquiringly; and Louis felt he was not likely to have had such an idea in his head.