“I think,” said Walsh bluntly, “that you are much nicer than I expected.”
He was trying to take a lump of sugar for his coffee with the tongs, but his hand shook.
“Fingers were made first! Allow me! You are smoking too much—that’s the answer,” she laughed. Walsh was annoyed by this evidence of weakness, for his nerves were usually steady, and he was vexed to be obliged to accept her help.
“Horses and cigars are your only diversions, I hear, Mr. Walsh.”
“Who told you that?”
“It was Wayne, I think.”
“Oh, yes; Wayne,” repeated Walsh, as though recalling the name with difficulty.
“Wayne and you are great friends.”
“Well, I don’t know that he would admit it,” and Walsh smiled. Mrs. Craighill reflected that there was something akin to tenderness just now in the face of this curious man.
“Oh, he told me about it! He spoke of you much more enthusiastically than Colonel Craighill did. It was not that Colonel Craighill didn’t say everything that was kind; but with Wayne, it was as though——”