“I was not so fortunate as to find time for sleep last night.” He smiled again with humorous, half twisted mouth.
“Nor was I.”
“Tut, tut! No, no, my dear, that sort of thing will not do.” He looked at her in silence for some time. “Perhaps, my dear,” said he at last, “you come regarding Captain Lewis?”
“How did you know?” she exclaimed, startled.
“Why should I not know?” He pushed his chair so close that he might lay a hand upon her arm. “Listen, Theo, my child. I am an old man, and I am your friend, and his also. I had need to be very blind had I not known long ago what I did know. I am, perhaps, the only confidant of Captain Lewis, and I repose in him confidences that I would venture to no other man; but he is not the sort to speak of such matters. It is only by virtue of exceptional circumstances, my dear, that I know the story of you two.”
She was looking straight into his face, her eyes mournful.
“I was glad to send him away, sorely as I miss him. But then, you said, you come to me about him?”
“Yes, after he is gone—knowing all that you say—because I trust your great kindness and your chivalry. I come to ask you to call him back! Oh, Mr. Jefferson, were it any other man in the world but yourself I had not dared come here; but you know my story and his. It is your right to believe that he and I were—that is to say, we might have been—ah, sir, how can I speak?”
“You need not speak, my dear, I know.”
“I shall be faithful to my husband, Mr. Jefferson.”