“You guess the object of my visit, then, sir?”
“No; I can feel it. Besides, I’m not blind.”
Parry Glyddyr looked at his host with a half-amused, half-vexed expression of countenance.
“No,” he said thoughtfully, in reference to Gartram’s last remark; “I suppose not, sir. Well, it is an awkward thing to do, and I may as well get it over. I will be frank.”
“Best way, sir, if you wish to get on with me.”
Glyddyr cleared his throat, became deeply interested in the ash of his cigar, and lolled back in his easy chair, quite conscious of the fact that his host was scanning him intently.
“I can sail my yacht as well as the master, Mr Gartram; I have a good seat in the hunting field, and I don’t funk my hedges; I am a dead shot; you know I can throw a fly; and I am not a bad judge of a horse; but over a talk like this I am a mere faltering boy.”
“Glad to hear it, sir, and hope it is your first essay. Go on.”
“Well, I came here nine months ago to repair damages after a storm, and you did me several pleasant little services.”
“Never mind them.”