Harbison to me. I was in the den, sitting in a low chair by the
wood fire when he came in. He hesitated in the doorway.
"Would you prefer being alone, or may I come in?" he asked.
"Don't mind being frank. I know you are tired."
"I have a headache, and I am sulking," I said unpleasantly, "but
at least I am not actively venomous. Come in."
So he came in and sat down across the hearth from me, and neither
of us said anything. The firelight flickered over the room,
bringing out the faded hues of the old Japanese prints on the
walls, gleaming in the mother-of-pearl eyes of the dragon on the
screen, setting a grotesque god on a cabinet to nodding. And it
threw into relief the strong profile of the man across from me,
as he stared at the fire.
"I am afraid I am not very interesting," I said at last, when he
showed no sign of breaking the silence. "The--the illness of the
butler and--Miss Caruthers' arrival, have been upsetting."
He suddenly roused with a start from a brown reverie.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I--oh, of course not! I was
wondering if I--if you were offended at what I said earlier in
the evening; the--Brushwood Boy, you know, and all that."
"Offended?" I repeated, puzzled.
"You see, I have been living out of the world so long, and never
seeing any women but Indian squaws"--so there were no Spanish
girls!--"that I'm afraid I say what comes into my mind without
circumlocution.
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