A little moisture gathered in Harrington’s eyes at the pathetic anxiety of the old man’s look and voice, but he smiled cheerfully, and shook his head.
“No, Bagasse,” he replied, “I am not sick. I am as well as I have ever been. Come, take a seat.”
Bagasse removed his cap, and sitting on the sofa, kept his upturned visage pointed in dubious inquiry at Harrington, who had resumed his chair.
“You know I have been married,” said Harrington smilingly.
“Marry! No! Mon Dieu, no! I haf not hear zat!” exclaimed Bagasse, with a start, and his bright eye glowing from a flushed visage.
“Yes,” replied Harrington. “To that beautiful rich lady Mr. Witherlee told you of.”
Bagasse turned the color of heated iron, partly with joy at this intelligence, partly with wonder at Harrington’s knowledge of what had passed between himself and Witherlee.
“By dam!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I am so glad I haf ze desire zoo dance like ze vair devail! But how you know what zat pup Witterly—ex-cuse me, Missr Harrington, but zat is vair bad young man—ah, vair bad!—how you know what he say zoo me?”
“No matter, Bagasse,” returned Harrington, smiling, “we won’t talk of that. But my wife heard of what you said to him—you remember?—what you said you would tell me if you were her—and she said that to me. Yes, she did.”