But in the morning at breakfast there was a gittern at Nick’s place—a rare old yellow gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, ivory pegs, and a head that ended in an angel’s face. It was strung with bright new silver strings, but near the bridge of it there was a little rut worn into the wood by the tips of the fingers that had rested there while playing, and the silken shoulder-ribbon was faded and worn.
Nick stopped, then put out both his hands as if to touch it, yet did not, being half afraid.
“Tut, take it up!” said Carew, sharply, though he had not seemed to heed. “Take it up—it is for thee.”
“For me?” cried Nick—“not for mine own?”
Carew turned and struck the table with his hand, as if suddenly wroth. “Why should I say it was for thee? if it were not to be thine own?”
“But, Master Carew—” Nick began.
“‘Master Carew’ fiddlesticks! Hold thy prate. Do I know my own mind, or do I filter my wits through thee? Did I not say that it is thine? Good, then—’tis thine, although it were thrice somebody else’s; and thrice as much thy very own through having other owners. Dost hear? Well, then, enough—we’ll have no words about it!”
Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his hat upon his head and left the room, Nick standing there beside the table, staring after him, with the gittern in his hands.