"I wish it was something interesting," he answered; "but it is not. It is the old story. I am out of humor. I'm dissatisfied. I have been guilty of the folly of not enjoying myself on one or two occasions, and the consciousness of it irritates me."
"It is always indiscreet not to enjoy one's self," she said.
And then there was silence for a moment, while she looked at him again.
Suddenly she broke into a laugh,—a laugh almost hard in its tone. He glanced up to see what it meant.
"Do you want to know what makes me laugh?" she said. "I am thinking how like all this is the old-fashioned tragedy, where all the dramatis personæ are disposed of in the last act. We go over one by one, don't we? Soon there will be no one left to tell the tale. Even Colonel Tredennis and Richard show signs of their approaching doom. And you—some one has shown you your dagger, I think, and you know you cannot escape it."
"I am the ghost," he answered; "the ghost who was disposed of before the tragedy began, and whose business it is to haunt the earth, and remind the rest of you that once I had blood in my veins too."
He broke off suddenly and left his seat. The expression of his face had altogether changed.
"We always talk in this strain," he exclaimed. "We are always jeering! Is there anything on earth, any suffering or human feeling, we could treat seriously? If there is, for God's sake let us speak of it just for one hour."
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was a sad little smile in their depths.
"Yes, you have seen your dagger," she said. "You have seen it. Poor Larry! Poor Larry!"