“Nothing,” answered the other, quick as thought. “I only tell you the story as a warning. To you especially, who take so much for said that has not been said. You are strong, and a man. Remember that a woman—even the strongest—may not be able to bear such a strain as you can bear.”
Cartoner was listening attentively enough. He always listened with attention to his friend on such rare occasions as he chose to be serious.
“You know,” went on Deulin, after a pause, during which the waiter had set before him a battered silver dish from which he removed the cover with a flourish full of promise—“you know that I would give into your care unreservedly anything that I possessed, such as a fortune, or—well—a daughter. I would trust you entirely. But any man may make a mistake. And if you make a mistake now, I shall never forgive you—never.”
And his eyes flashed with a sudden fierceness as he looked at his companion.
“Is there anything I can do for you, my friend?” he asked, curtly.
“You have already promised to do the only thing I would ask you to do in Warsaw,” replied Cartoner.
Deulin held up one hand in a gesture commanding silence.
“Not another word—they cost you so much, a few words—I understand perfectly.”
Then with a rapid relapse into his gayer mood he turned to the dish before him.
“And now let us consider the railway beef. It promises little. But it cannot be so tough and indigestible as the memory of a mistake—I tell you that.”