“Randolph,” he said, a little inconsequently, “do you know I think I could almost be afraid of you sometimes. I never saw you look before as you looked just then.”
The stern lines on Randolph’s face relaxed a little but he still looked grave and pre-occupied, sitting with his elbow on his knee, leaning forward, and pulling his moustache with an abstracted air.
“You are rather unforgiving too, I think,” pursued the boy. “Conrad admitted he had done wrong, but he is very sorry for the past; and I think it is hard when old offences, repented of, are not consigned to oblivion.”
Randolph was silent.
“Don’t you agree?”
Still only impenetrable silence.
“Come, Randolph, don’t be so mysterious and so revengeful. Let us have the whole story, and judge for ourselves.”
“Excuse me, Arthur; but the life of Sir Conrad Fitzgerald is not one that I choose to discuss. His affairs are no concern of mine, nor, if you will pardon my saying so, any concern of yours, either. You are at liberty to renew past friendship with him if it pleases you to do so; but it is useless to ask me to do the same.”
And with that Randolph rose, and quitted the room without another word.