“And I am another,” said Oscard frankly.
“Ah! Then you are happy enough to be the object of a reciprocal feeling which for myself I could scarcely expect. She spoke of you in no measured language. I gathered from her that if you had not acted with great promptitude the—er—happy event of to-morrow could not have taken place.”
The old man paused, and Guy Oscard, who looked somewhat distressed and distinctly uncomfortable, could find no graceful way of changing the conversation.
“In a word,” went on Sir John in a very severe tone, “I owe you a great debt. You saved my boy's life.”
“Yes, but you see,” argued Oscard, finding his tongue at last, “out there things like that don't count for so much.”
“Oh—don't they?” There was the suggestion of a smile beneath Sir John's grim eyebrows.
“No,” returned Oscard rather lamely, “it is a sort of thing that happens every day out there.”
Sir John turned suddenly, and with the courtliness that was ever his he indulged in a rare exhibition of feeling. He laid his hand on Guy Oscard's stalwart knee.
“My dear Oscard,” he said, and when he chose he could render his voice very soft and affectionate, “none of these arguments apply to me because I am not out there. I like you for trying to make little of your exploit. Such conduct is worthy of you—worthy of a gentleman; but you cannot disguise the fact that Jack owes his life to you and I owe you the same, which, between you and me I may mention, is more valuable to me than my own. I want you to remember always that I am your debtor, and if—if circumstances should ever seem to indicate that the feeling I have for you is anything but friendly and kind, do me the honour of disbelieving those indications—you understand?”
“Yes,” replied Oscard untruthfully.