“Was that mere chance that made you suggest—Elice in connection with that offer of Graham’s,” he asked, at last; “or did you mean more than the question seemed to imply, Darley?”
Again for an appreciable space there was silence.
“I seldom do things by chance, Armstrong. To use your own simile, I’m too much of a fish. I don’t want to seem to interfere with your personal affairs, however. I beg your pardon if you wish.”
“But I don’t wish you to do so,” shortly. “You know that. Besides there’s nothing to conceal so far as I’m concerned. Just what did you mean to suggest?” 22
Again the other hesitated, with a reluctance that was not simulated. Darley Roberts simulated nothing.
“If you really wish to know,” he complied at last, “I think you ought to tell, her—without coloring the matter by your own point of view in the least. She should be as much interested as you yourself.”
“She is. Take that for granted.”
Roberts waited.
“I know, though, so certainly what she would say that it seems a bit superfluous.”
Still Roberts waited.