Jack arose hastily and walked the room in silent agitation. At last he stopped and stood before the other.
“I cannot, my General—my God, I cannot! Blame me, cut me off from your esteem and friendship as I am already cut off from hers. This thing is between me and my Maker.
“No man,” said the General, rising, “has the right to ask of you things which are between you and your God. I do not want to know—and this —is—”
“And I cannot tell you anything, my friend—my more than friend.”
He stood before his father’s picture—the Trevellian portrait that hung above them on the wall. He bowed his head in the agony of it all.
“I have never kept anything from you before, and you know how hard it is for me to do this, but—”
The other man was walking the room. He turned and said:
“Well, then, I will tell you what happened. Bristow has said enough for me to challenge him—said it at my table,” and his face flushed with the purpling rage which could so quickly mount to it. “My friends’ fights are my own, Jack—you know that—”
“You have not challenged him, General?” and Jack paled suddenly.