"Why—why, sir—" stammered Mr. Brimberly, laying a soothing hand upon his twitching whisker, "indeed, I—I—"
"Oh—help yourself, pray!"
Hereupon Mr. Brimberly took a cigar very much at random, and, while Young R. watched with lazy interest, proceeded to cut it—though with singularly clumsy fingers.
"A light, Mr. Brimberly—allow me!"
So Ravenslee held the light while Mr. Brimberly puffed his cigar to a glow, though to be sure he coughed once and choked, as he met Young R.'s calm grey eye.
"Now," pursued his master, "if you're quite comfortable, Mr. Brimberly, perhaps you'll be good enough to—er—hearken further to my tale of woe?"
Mr. Brimberly choked again and recovering, smoothed his writhing whiskers and murmured: "It would be a honour!"
"First, then, Brimberly, have you ever hated yourself—I mean, despised yourself so utterly and thoroughly that the bare idea of your existence makes you angry and indignant?"
"Why—no, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, staring, "I can't say as I 'ave, sir."
"No," said his master with another keen glance, "and I don't suppose you ever will!" Now here again, perhaps because of the look or something in Young R.'s tone, Mr. Brimberly took occasion to emit a small, apologetic cough.