"Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again into melancholy. "You don't like the story, then? You didn't see anything unusual in it—purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?"
"There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is too much blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No man could go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It's absurd."
Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly. Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his long ulster making him look taller than he really was.
"Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property that would have kept me from want has——"
"Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You've told it to everybody.
To me several times."
"How my cousin cheated me out of——"
"Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved."
"Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the other's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was finally broken by Gibberts saying—
"So you don't care about the story?"
"Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with an imaginary and sanguinary ending."