“It will keep the cold out on your journey back,” said he.
The young man put the glass to his lips with a suspicion of which he felt ashamed. Old Mr Bayre sipped his with a nod and a sort of smirk. The contents of the glass were a liqueur unknown to the younger man, sweet, strong, heady.
“Drink it,” urged his host. “Do you think I want to poison you?”
His nephew obeyed with a rather hollow laugh. He did not, of course, suppose that his uncle had designs upon his life, but that there was some secret and malevolent intention underlying his grim hospitality the unwilling guest felt sure.
The potent liquor seemed to have a mollifying effect upon old Mr Bayre, who began to stroke the head of his dog, the while he looked meditatively at his guest, and presently said, with abruptness,—
“How long is it since I saw you last, Bartlett?”
“About twenty years, I should think, sir,” replied the young man.
“Ah! and how many do you think will it be before I see you again?”
The question was put with a sort of grim jocularity.
“Am I to judge by the warmth of your reception of me, sir, or by some other criterion?”