Mr. Andrew bounced back two or three steps to regard the dusky sombrero.
“How do you do, sir?” said Evan.
“Sir to you!” Mr. Andrew briskly replied. “Don’t they teach you to give your fist in Portugal, eh? I’ll ‘sir’ you. Wait till I’m Sir Andrew, and then ‘sir’ away. You do speak English still, Van, eh? Quite jolly, my boy?”
Mr. Andrew rubbed his hands to express that state in himself. Suddenly he stopped, blinked queerly at Evan, grew pensive, and said, “Bless my soul! I forgot.”
The door opened, Mr. Andrew took Evan’s arm, murmured a “hush!” and trod gently along the passage to his library.
“We’re safe here,” he said. “There—there’s something the matter up-stairs. The women are upset about something. Harriet—” Mr. Andrew hesitated, and branched off: “You’ve heard we’ve got a new baby?”
Evan congratulated him; but another inquiry was in Mr. Andrew’s aspect, and Evan’s calm, sad manner answered it.
“Yes,”—Mr. Andrew shook his head dolefully—“a splendid little chap! a rare little chap! a we can’t help these things, Van! They will happen. Sit down, my boy.”
Mr. Andrew again interrogated Evan with his eyes.
“My father is dead,” said Evan.