‘Nothing; only that man’s face and his talk have upset me. I could have strangled him.’
‘What an excitable fellow you are!’ said Crieff, taking his arm. ‘Upon my life, you take these things far too seriously. The other day you were seriously angry with Lagardère, and here you are actually distressing yourself over the prattle of a child like Gavrolles.’
‘You do not understand. I know the man, and have reason to remember him.’
‘That alters the case. Where did you meet?’
‘In France—some years ago.’
Crieff listened for further explanations, but none came. Pressed to say more, Sutherland shook his head, and relapsed into silence; so the little journalist proceeded to give his muscular friend a lesson in social philosophy.
‘You are too thoroughly in earnest, and in company your earnestness makes other people uncomfortable. Life would be impossible if every bit of idle chit-chat or ad captandum argument were taken au sérieux. Looked at in the proper light, Gavrolles is charming—a droll creature with a touch of genius. To you he is merely a dissolute young man, who reads improper books.’
‘To me,’ returned Sutherland, fiercely, ‘he is a thorough scoundrel, whom I should like to choke.’
Crieff soon perceived that remonstrance was useless, and, mentally determining not to introduce his companion to any more choice spirits, he changed the subject. The pair soon parted, Crieff to stroll down to the gallery of the House of Commons, Sutherland to pace the solitary streets, full of the troubled recollections awakened by that chance encounter.