There came an impatient creaking of a settle near the fire; a head lifted up from a leather cushion, and a voice demanded:
“Am I not paying for all I get, madam? Is the fire-wood not included? No, don’t say anything,” and the speaker gestured impatiently; “put it in the bill, and don’t worry me with your conversation.”
Mistress Trout tossed her head at this, and after receiving George’s order, left the apartment with a wrathful countenance.
Curiously, George approached the fire; holding his hands out to the blaze, he looked into the upturned face, and to his surprise recognized the heavy brows and sullen expression of Lieutenant Camp. As he was still surprisedly gazing into the young man’s face, the eyes opened; seeing himself closely observed, the latter sat up instantly.
“Hello,” said he, rather roughly. “What brings you here?”
“The fire, latterly,” smiled George, still holding his hands extended over the blaze. “But the prospect of a hot supper, mainly.”
The heavy brows of the young man upon the settle gathered in a frown; his eyes searched George’s face with a peculiar look.
“It seems to me that I’ve seen you before,” said he.
George nodded, but just as he was about to point out where they had met on the day before, he caught the odd look in the other’s eyes, and with a quick impulse checked himself. So he merely said:
“It is very likely.”