“We needed no thanks, Mr Glyddyr,” said Claude gravely.
“No, no, of course not,” he said. “I meant to thank you. Mr Gartram is asleep, and if you will not think me rude, I will go and sit in the study and smoke a cigar.”
“Pray do, Mr Glyddyr,” said Claude; and he once more left the room.
“Well, I couldn’t have believed it, Claudie. The lion completely tamed by love. Why, my poor darling, you’ve turned him from a sarcastic, sharp-tongued, clever London society man to a weak, hesitating lover.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t talk like that, Mary,” cried Claude; for the picture her cousin painted seemed to her terrible. She literally shuddered at the idea of this man really loving her, and sat looking aghast before her, while Glyddyr went slowly back, so excited that the perspiration oozed from his brow, and made him unconsciously take out his pocket handkerchief to wipe the palms of his hands.
Upon the first occasion he had strung himself up and walked quickly to the study determined to carry out his plans.
“It will only be a loan,” he told himself; “only borrowing what is to be my own some day, and he would never miss it.”
Closing the door behind him, and merely glancing at the easy-chair in which Gartram lay back, with his face in the shade, and his white shirt-front standing out of the gloom like some peculiar creature, Glyddyr walked to the mantelpiece, looked at the glass; then crossed to the table, and began picking and choosing from the cigars in the box, as in a furtive way he listened to his host’s slow, heavy breathing, and wondered whether he was sufficiently sound for him to attempt to get his keys.
The breathing came very regularly, and at last, after hesitating a great deal on the selection of a cigar, he said aloud—
“Where do you get your cigars, Mr Gartram?”