I nodded; though I don't mind owning that I felt a bit uneasy. He might have wanted to say all sorts of things to me in what he called confidence--and he was the sort of man to say them too. His next words, however, reassured me.
"I am not a man of strong likes or dislikes"--I should rather say he wasn't, being about the most bloodless creature going!--"but I like you, if you will excuse me, Townsend."
"Excuse you, sir? You flatter me too much."
He smiled--if the wrinkling of his thin lips could be called a smile.
"Flatter you? I hardly think I flatter you. I will tell you why I like you, Townsend."
He paused. I waited. The old fox kept twisting the stem of his wineglass round and round between his thin white fingers.
"I like you, Townsend, because, although you are out of the common run, you are not sufficiently so to be unpleasantly conspicuous. You have what I lack, passion. You are as likely to ascend to the top of the tree as to the top of the gallows. I hardly think I flatter you."
"You at least credit me with having aspirations."
"I believe, Townsend, that your wealth scarcely exceeds the dreams of avarice--eh?" The remark had so little connection with anything that had gone before, that I think I stared. He favoured me with one of those lightning flashes which are among the tricks of his trade--then you can see what eyes he really has. "I said I wanted to speak to you in confidence."
"Precisely. You only flatter me too much."