“Ah—Jack—perhaps!”
A very gentle shadow seemed to descend upon Katharine’s face, veiling her heart’s thoughts and hiding her real expression, though she did not turn her eyes away from the old man. A short silence followed.
“I hear that Jack is doing very well,” he said, at last. “Jack’s a good fellow at heart, Katharine. I think he’s forgiven me for what happened last winter. I was angry, you know—and he looked very wild.”
“He’s forgotten all about it, I’m sure. He never speaks of it now. I think he only mentioned it once after it happened, when he explained everything to me. Don’t imagine that he bears you any malice. Besides—after all you’ve done—”
“I’ve done nothing for him, because he won’t let me,” growled Robert Lauderdale, and a discontented look came into his face. “But I’m glad he’s doing well—I’m very glad.”
“It’s slow, of course,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “It will be long before he can hope to be a partner.”
“Not so long as you think, child. I’ve been very ill, and I am very ill. I may be dead to-morrow.”
“Don’t talk like that! So may I, or anybody—by an accident in the street.”
“No, no! I’m in earnest. Not that I care much, I think. It’s time to be going, and I’ve had my share—and the share of many others, I’m afraid. Never mind. Never mind—we won’t talk of it any more. You’re so young. It makes you sad.”
Again the two exchanged a little pressure of hands, and there was silence.