Stainton bit his lip. There had been no malice in her tone, yet all children are cruel, he reflected, and the modern child's cruelty is ingenious. Was there anything in that speech for her to be sorry for, and, if there were, would she be sorry?
"Some day," he said quietly, "I shall try to explain."
She regarded him again, this time with altered gaze.
"Some day," she said, "I hope you will tell me about that romantic career that Aunt Ethel was talking of."
Was she sorry? Was she interested?
"It's not romantic," he protested. "It isn't in the least romantic. It's just a story of hard work and disappointment, and hard work and success."
"But Mr. Holt told us that in one month you were condemned to death for piracy in Central America and acted—what do they call it?—floor-manager for a firemen's ball in Denver."
"George has been dipping his brush in earthquake and eclipse. He never knew me till he met me in the West five or six years ago. I was condemned for piracy in absentio by a Spanish-American court because I had a job as cook on a filibustering ship that was wrecked off Yucatan and never got any nearer to shore, and I was floor-manager at the firemen's ball because—well, because I happened to belong to a fire-company."
"But you did have adventures in Alaska and Colorado and New Mexico?"
"Oh, I've knocked about a bit."