“Yes,” he answered; “she waited.”
Then he looked round the room, and, seeing that they were almost alone, he moved towards the seat just vacated by his wife.
“Come and sit down,” he said, “and I will tell you a little story.”
“Does she know it?” enquired Harkness, when they were seated.
“No.”
“Then I don't want to hear it! You'd better keep it to yourself, I reckon.”
The Englishman gave a little laugh, and lapsed into silence—thinking abstractedly.
“I should like to tell you some of it, for my own sake. I don't want you to go away thinking—something that is not the fact.”
“I would rather not have the story,” persisted Harkness. This American had some strange notions of a bygone virtue called chivalry. “Give me a few facts—I will string them together.”
Lord Storrel was sitting forward on his low chair, with his hands clasped between his knees. They were rather large hands—suggestive of manual labour.