“A very old friend indeed, Mrs. Tracy. Why, we were boys together. We were at school together. We were at college together. And we were both called to the Bar the same day.”
“Law!” exclaimed Mrs. Tracy.
Indeed, what could she say? Mr. Grey had always been a remarkably reserved, reticent man—a “little queer,” the good lady thought—and, beyond what was necessary in the way of speech, quite silent and inscrutable.
“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” went on the poor barrister, “and I’ll tell you something that will surprise you even more. We were both in love with the same lady.”
This indeed did surprise the draggle-tailed bed-maker, and she looked her astonishment.
“It’s quite true; and the strange thing is that she preferred me, or at least she told me so. And when I left my home in Devonshire I was engaged to her.”
Mrs. Tracy did not now think that the gentleman was a “little queer”—she was convinced that he was stark staring mad. She looked apprehensively at the poor thin knife that lay on the table. Reticent! Why, the man was as garrulous and confidential as a village gossip.
He continued:
“You see, Overton was always a more pushing man, and a cleverer man too; and after we were called he borrowed a hundred pounds from me and went down to Devonshire. Some wicked stories got circulated about my doings in London, in consequence of which my sweetheart ceased to care for me, and Overton, who was always a plucky fellow, ran away with her and married her.”
His voice trembled as he narrated that episode; but he returned to the affectation of gaiety, and said,—