Honora was in the less formal of the drawing rooms when Jason Burrage was announced. He came forward almost immediately, in the most rigorous evening attire, a new silk hat on his arm.
“You had no trouble getting one,” she nodded in its direction.
“Four,” he replied tersely.
Jason took a seat facing her across an open space of darkly flowered carpet, and Honora studied him, directly critical. Against a vague background his countenance was extraordinarily pronounced, vividly pallid. His black hair swept in a soft wave across a brow with indented temples, his nose was short with wide nostrils, the lower part of his face square. His hands, scarred and discolored, rested each on a black-clad knee.
She was in no hurry to begin a conversation which must either be stilted, uncomfortable, or reach beyond known confines. For the moment her daring was passive. Jason Burrage stirred his feet, and she attended the movement with thoughtful care. He said unexpectedly:
“I believe I've never been in here before.” He turned and studied his surroundings as if in an effort of memory. “But I talked to your father once in the hall.”
“Nothing has been changed,” she answered almost unintelligibly. “Very little does in Cot-tarsport.”
“That's so,” he assented. “I saw it when I came back. It was just the same, but I——” he stopped and his expression became gloomy.
“If you mean that you were different, you are wrong,” she declared concisely. “Just that has made trouble for you—you have been unable to be anything but yourself. I am like that, too. Every one is.”
“I have been through things,” he told her enigmatically. “Why look—just the trip: to Chagres on the Isthmus, and then mules and canoes through that ropey woods to Panama, with thousands of prospectors waiting for the steamer. Then back by Mazatlan, Mexico City, and Vera Cruz. A man sees things.”