His vis-à-vis shook his head, took out a case, and carefully selected a cigar, which he proceeded to cut and light.
“Oh, nonsense, man! The luck will change; my turn to-day, your’s to-morrow.”
“Pooh! It isn’t that, Sir Mark,” said Barron, throwing himself back in his chair. “I can afford to lose a few louis. I’m a bit hipped—out of sorts.”
“Hotel living.”
“No, sir; brain. There, I’ll speak plainly, even at the risk of your laughing at me, for we have been friends now at several places during the last three months—since I met you at Saint Malo.”
“Pleasant acquaintances, sir,” said the admiral, metaphorically drawing himself beneath the shell of his English reserve. “Mutual tastes—yachting. Acquaintances, sir.”
“I beg your pardon; acquaintances, then.”
There was a pause, during which the admiral also lit a fresh cigar, and his brows twitched a little.
“Sir Mark, I’m a plain man, and I think by this time you pretty well know my history. I ought to be over in Trinidad superintending the cocoa estate my poor father left me, but I detest the West Indies, and I love European life. It is my misfortune to be too well off. Not rich, but I have a comfortable, modest income. Naturally idle, I suppose.”
“Nonsense, sir!” said the admiral gruffly. “One of the most active men I ever met.”