“What makes you say that?” said I, rather nettled.
“I shan't tell you if it's going to rile you, old fellow,” was his reply. And with it reappeared the charming youth whom I found it impossible to resist. “Heaven knows you have had enough to worry you!” he added, in his kindly, sympathetic voice.
“So much,” said I, “that you cannot add to it, my dear Rattray. Now, then! Why do you think there was something worse?”
“You hinted as much in town: rightly or wrongly I gathered there was something you would never speak about to living man.”
I turned from him with a groan.
“Ah! but that had nothing to do with Santos.”
“Are you sure?” he cried.
“No,” I murmured; “it had something to do with him, in a sense; but don't ask me any more.” And I leaned my forehead on the high oak mantel-piece, and groaned again.
His hand was upon my shoulder.
“Do tell me,” he urged. I was silent. He pressed me further. In my fancy, both hand and voice shook with his sympathy.