“I don’t know it, and I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Make them think as you do.”
He waved his hand to the departing crowd.
“I don’t. I try to think as they do. I am always in touch with the primitive mind.”
“You ought to do great things here, Belward,” said the other seriously. “You have the trick; and we need wisdom at Westminster.”
“Don’t be mistaken; I am only adaptable. There’s frank confession.”
At this point Mr. Babbs came up and said good-night in a large, self-conscious way. Gaston hoped that his campaign would not be wasted, and the fluffy gentleman retired. When he got out of earshot in the shadows, he turned and shook his fist towards Gaston, saying: “Half-breed upstart!” Then he refreshed his spirits by swearing at his coachman.
Gaston and Jacques drove quickly over to “The Whisk o’ Barley.” Gaston was now intent to tell the whole truth. He wished that he had done it before; but his motives had been good—it was not to save himself. Yet he shrank. Presently he thought:
“What is the matter with me? Before I came here, if I had an idea I stuck to it, and didn’t have any nonsense when I knew I was right. I am getting sensitive—the thing I find everywhere in this country: fear of feeling or giving pain; as though the bad tooth out isn’t better than the bad tooth in. When I really get sentimental I’ll fold my Arab tent—so help me, ye seventy Gods of Yath!”