"Oh, landlord of the Swan of Gold," he piped, in his curious, flute-like voice, sorting out his words as he went on, "I owe you my unworthy life, which is nothing in itself and which I don't value, save only for a certain opportunity which remains to it, and is a private matter. But I owe my life to your courage and strength and flowering kindness, and I come to put myself in your hands."
Really he was making a damn lot of fuss about nothing!
"Look here," I said, "that's all right. You would have done as much for me. Now let's sit down and have a peg and a chat. I can put you up for the rest of the night, you know, and I shall be awfully glad to do it."
He looked as if he was going to make more speeches, but I cut him short.
"As for putting your life in my hands," I said, "we don't talk like that in England."
He sat down and a faint smile came upon his tired lips.
"And do the public-house keepers in England have hands such as yours are?" he said gently. "Sir, your hands are white, they are also shaped in a certain way, and your nails are not even in mourning for your profession!"
I cursed myself savagely as he mocked me. Bill had pointed out over and over again that I oughtn't to use a nail brush too frequently—it wasn't in the part—but I always forgot it.
To hide my confusion I moved a little table towards him on which was a box of excellent cigarettes. Unfortunately, also on the table was a little pocket edition of Shakespeare with which I used to solace the drab hours.
He picked it up, opened it plump at "Romeo and Juliet"—the play which, for reasons known to you, I most affected at the time—and looked up at me with gentle eyes.