"Good boy! How did it happen? You must sit down and tell me all about it. Was it one of those horrid natives?"
Trevelyan sat down near the window in the deep shadow of the curtains. He put his hand to his head and pressed it there tightly for a moment.
"No," he said, "It wasn't one of the natives. It was my own revolver."
"What?"
Trevelyan faltered.
"Must you hear the story to-day? Won't you wait? It's so long since I've seen you—"
If this brief hour could only be his, unspoiled, to remember!
"Don't be aggravating," said Cary, "I'm interested, and I want to hear." She could not have told why a dull weight should suddenly have laid itself upon her.
Trevelyan sat silent.
"First," he said presently, playing with the tassel of the curtain cord, "first, let me tell you about John."