He looked at me steadily, and appeared to be uncertain whether to say anything more or not. He was struggling to reach some point, though I could not imagine what it was. I began to suspect that he wanted to borrow some money of me. If he did, he had come to the wrong man. He labored heavily, like a ship in a storm, and I was beginning to be rather impatient at the slowness with which he proceeded.
Cormorin and I.
“Glasswood, give me your hand,” said he, after a long pause, as he extended his own to me across the table.
I took his hand, for I could not refuse to do as much as that for a man who was paying for the champagne.
“We are friends—are we not?” he continued.
“Certainly we are.”
“Do you mean so?”
“Of course I do. I don’t say one thing and mean another. If you want to say any thing, Cormorin, say it.”
“As a friend, I will,” said he, with compressed lips, as though he had made up his mind to do a desperate deed. “This is between us, you know?”