“I don't think we can, sir. In talking with you, I always feel like fighting a man with one hand tied behind his back.”
“And I, perhaps, feel that I am arguing with one who was blind from birth.”
For all that, they had often argued since; but never without those peculiar smiles coming on their faces. Still, they respected each other, and Pierson had not opposed his daughter's marriage to this heretic, whom he knew to be an honest and trustworthy man. It had taken place before Laird's arm was well, and the two had snatched a month's honeymoon before he went back to France, and she to her hospital in Manchester. Since then, just one February fortnight by the sea had been all their time together....
In the afternoon he had asked for beef tea, and, having drunk a cup, said:
“I've got something to tell your father.”
But warned by the pallor of his smiling lips, Gratian answered:
“Tell me first, George.”
“Our last talk, Gracie; well—there's nothing—on the other side. I looked over; it's as black as your hat.”
Gratian shivered.
“I know. While you were lying here last night, I told father.”