Sir John Meredith nodded.
“I like that man,” he said, “he is tough. I like tough men. He wrote me a letter before he went away. It was the letter of—one gentleman to another. Is he going to spend the rest of his life 'after big-game'?”
Jack laughed.
“It seems rather like it. He is cut out for that sort of life. He is too big for narrow streets and cramped houses.”
“And matrimony?”
“Yes—and matrimony.”
Sir John was leaning forward in his chair, his two withered hands clasped on his knees.
“You know,” he said slowly, blinking at the fire, “he cared for that girl—more than you did, my boy.”
“Yes,” answered Jack softly.
Sir John looked towards him, but he said nothing. His attitude was interrogatory. There were a thousand questions in the turn of his head, questions which one gentleman could not ask another.