He was putting his finger nearly on the very spot. I said nothing.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “when it’s all boiled down, you are only an English beggar boy.”
“I’ve come to a man’s estate since we met last,” I said meaningly.
He seemed to meditate over this. His face never changed, except, perhaps, to an even more amused benignity of expression.
“You have lived very fast by that account,” he remarked artlessly. “Is it possible now? Well, life, as you know, can’t last forever; and, indeed, taking a better look at you in this poor light, you do seem to be very near death.”
I did not flinch; and, with a very dry mouth, I uttered defiantly:
“Such talk means nothing.”
“Bravely said. But this is not talk. You’ve gone too fast. I am giving you a chance to turn back.”
“Not an inch,” I said fiercely. “Neither in thought, in deed; not even in semblance.”
He seemed as though he wanted to swallow a bone in his throat.