“Sit down,” said Nicholas shortly, pointing to a chair. “I have a good deal to say to you. You would be tired of standing before I have done.”
Antony sat down. The Arabian Nights entertainment sensation he had formerly experienced in the offices of Messrs. Parsons and Glieve, rushed upon him with an even fuller force; yet here the lighter and almost humorous note was lacking. Something tinged with resentment had taken its place. He felt himself to have been trapped, befooled, though he had not yet fully grasped the manner of the befooling.
“I was a friend of your father,” said Nicholas abruptly.
The story would not be told exactly as he had told it to Trix, though the difference in the telling would be largely unconscious. It would deal more with the surface of things, and less with the inner trend of thought, the telling of which had been drawn from him by her unspoken sympathy.
“I know,” said Antony quietly, in answer to the remark.
“Also I met you once,” said Nicholas, a little reminiscent smile dawning in his eyes. It had an oddly softening effect upon his rather carven face. For the moment he looked almost youthful.
“I remember,” replied Antony gravely.
“Do you?” said Nicholas, the smile finding its way to his lips. “What a determined youngster you were! ‘I’ve got to. I’ve begun!’” Nicholas threw back his head with a laugh. “It appealed to me, did that sentiment. I saw the bulldog grip in it. But there was no viciousness in the statement. Jove! you weren’t even angry. You were as cool as a cucumber in your mind, though your cheeks were crimson with the effort. You succeeded, too. I had forgotten the whole business till last March. Then it came back to me. I’ve got to tell you the story to explain matters. It is only fair that you should know the ins and outs of this business. I have no doubt it seems pretty queer to you?” Nicholas paused.
“I confess I am somewhat at a loss regarding it,” returned Antony dryly.
“Not over-pleased,” muttered Nicholas inwardly. Aloud he said, “I’ve no doubt you will think it all a sort of fool show, and I am by no means sure that I don’t regard it in something that fashion myself now. However—” Nicholas cleared his throat. “Since my accident on the hunting field I have seen no one. I had no desire to have a lot of gossipping women and old fool men around. I hate their cackle. I left the management of the estate to Standing, my agent. When he left—he got the offer of a post on Lord Sinclair’s estate—Spencer Curtis took his place. He had to report to me, and I saw that he kept things going all right. He was not an easy man to the tenants, but I did not particularly want a softling, you understand. Last March one of the tenants—Job Grantley, you know him—sneaked up here. It had been a vile day. He was in difficulties as to his rent, and Curtis was putting the pressure on. He had a fancy for squeezing those who couldn’t retaliate, I suppose. Dirty hound!”