The old man drew up his feet, threw one leg over the other, and began to tap upon his knee with the fingers of one hand. He was silent for a minute at least.
"What do you know about her?" he then inquired, looking steadily at Waymark, with a gravity which surprised the latter. "I mean, of her earlier life. Do you know who she is at all?"
"She has told me her whole story—a rather uncommon one, full of good situations."
"What do you mean?"
The words were uttered with such harsh impatience that Waymark started.
"What annoys you?" he asked, with surprise.
"Tell me something of the story," said the other, regaining his composure, and apparently wishing to affect indifference. "I have a twinge of that damned rheumatism every now and then, and it makes me rather crusty. Do you think her story is to be depended upon?"
"Yes, I believe it is."
And Waymark linked briefly the chief points of Ida's history, as he knew it, the old man continually interrupting him with questions.
"Now go on," said Abraham, when he had heard all that Waymark knew, "and explain the scrape she's got into."