I was not thinking of myself, nor of my love, nor of any particular
incident of the fire that still went on burning in my brain. My
tone was doubtless confidential, but I was meditating no special
confidence when my companion drew one with his next words. These,
however, came after a pause, in which my eyes had fallen from his
face, but in which I heard him emptying his glass.
"What do you mean?" he whispered. "That there were other
circumstances - things which haven't got into the papers?"
"God knows there were," I answered, my face in my hands; and, my
grief brought home to me, there I sat with it in the presence of
that stranger, without compunction and without shame.
He sprang up and paced the room. His tact made me realize my
weakness, and I was struggling to overcome it when he surprised me
by suddenly stopping and laying a rather tremulous hand upon my
shoulder.
"You - It wouldn't do you any good to speak of those circumstances,
I suppose?" he faltered.
"No: not now: no good at all."
"Forgive me," he said, resuming his walk. "I had no business - I
felt so sorry - I cannot tell you how I sympathize! And yet - I
wonder if you will always feel so?"
"No saying how I shall feel when I am a man again," said I. "You
see what I am at present." And, pulling myself together, I rose to
find my new friend quite agitated in his turn.
"I wish we had some more brandy," he sighed. "I'm afraid it's too
late to get any now."
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