“Noll, my lad,” said he, “I haven’t been listening over-well to what you have been saying—I’ve been thinking hard that you ought to have been my son.”
Noll stopped in his walk, stopped in his talk—hesitated.
He uttered an embarrassed laugh:
“I have been apologizing, sir,” he said.
“Have you?” growled Wyntwarde. “That is a relief to me—I thought you were ordering me to apologize.”
Noll shrugged his shoulders, and took to his pacing of the room again, silenced.
The old lord watched him grimly, saying nothing.
Noll suddenly halted, swung round, and faced him:
“I am sorry, sir,” said he—“I ought to have rid you of my company before this. But I felt bound to make you what poor reparation I could for all your goodness to me. I did not write, because—a personal apology is always far more punishment to me than the written word. This has been a punishing task to me—I have dreaded it—loathed it. And yet, I fear, it has seemed but a lame and sorry reparation to you.... I will not fret you any longer. I am done.”
Wyntwarde laughed: