"Then I wouldn't try to find any, if I were you. There are some things which won't bear talking about, and this is one of them."
"That seems rather unfeeling, doesn't it?"
"Are one's feelings to be gauged by the amount of talk one may give utterance to? Are there not occasions when silence may be the heart's most eloquent tribute?"
"Possibly--possibly," replied Mr. Ormsby, with a little cough behind his hand. "I dare say you are right--from your point of view. If you would like Octavia to come and look after matters at the Towers for the next week or two, I am sure that she----"
"Not for the world! I am a strange fellow, Ormsby, as I dare say you have found out before today. The more I am left to myself just at present, the better I shall be pleased."
"Well, well, as you will. Still, I cannot but feel sure that my wife would have been a great comfort to you in your affliction. She is so truly sympathetic."
"Good day, Ormsby," said the other abruptly. "I know you mean well, and I thank you. But I'm all on edge just now and I can't talk any more."
"I can sympathize with you, my dear fellow. I have something of the same feeling myself." With that he held out his hand.
"Ah, excuse me, but I sprained my wrist this morning." He crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell, and then stood grasping his right wrist with his left hand.
"That's unfortunate. Well, au revoir," said Ormsby, as he took possession of his hat and gloves.