“I suppose you went in for long distance running, then. You’re made for it,” he added, rather patronizingly and glancing at the man’s sinewy figure.
“No. I never ran in a race,” answered the literary man.
“Oh—I supposed, when you spoke, that you’d gone in for athletics—formerly,” said Wingfield, disappointed.
“No—I wasn’t educated in places where athletics were the fashion at that time. I was strong—that’s all. I could do things with my hands that other people couldn’t.”
“Could you?” Katharine saw that the original subject was dropping, and encouraged the dull conversation which had taken its place. “What could you do with your hands?” she asked, with an air of interest. “They look strong. Could you roll up silver plates into holders for bouquets, like Count Orloff?”
“I think I could do it,” Griggs answered, quietly. “But nobody ever wanted to waste a silver plate on me.”
“It’s not easy, I should think,” said young Wingfield. “I know I couldn’t do it.”
“I’m sure you could,” said Katharine, turning to him. “You must be tremendously strong. But can’t you do something else with your hands, Mr. Griggs? I like to see those things. They amuse me.”
Griggs was the last man in the world to wish to show off his qualities, physical or mental, but on the present occasion he could not resist the temptation. He never knew afterwards why he had yielded, and attributed his weakness to the inborn desire to excel in the eyes of women, which is in every man.
“Have you a pack of cards?” he asked, turning to Bright. “If you have, I’ll show you something that may amuse you.”