John Gore was watching his father with those dark, intent eyes of his.
“I want to speak to you about Barbara Purcell.”
My lord threw his tablets upon the bed, and looked at his son with questioning keenness. It was still of vital interest to him to discover whether this sea-rover had lost his heart or no.
“Tell me one thing first, Jack. Had you any strong fancy for the girl?”
“It is four months since I smelled the sea, sir.”
“Then she had some flavor for you—beyond the mere scent of a petticoat?”
“Yes, a good deal more than that.”
His father regarded him with sympathetic solemnity. Yet my lord’s attitude betrayed the fact that even a clever man of the world may prove shallowly pompous in dealing with a son.
“I gave you all the information I have, Jack, last night. If you care to see the pistol-mark the poor child made on me, the coat is hanging in that cupboard.”
John Gore kept his place.