I didn't try. He wasn't the sort one could flirt
with. He was hard--hard as iron, clean-shaven, with an immensely
powerful jaw, and eyes that looked clean through you. He was one of
those short, broad Englishmen--you know the sort--out of proportion
everywhere, but so splendidly strong. He just hated me for making
friends with him. It was very funny."
An odd little note of laughter ran through the words--that laughter
which is akin to tears.
"But I didn't care for that," she said. "It didn't hurt me in the least.
He was too big to give offence to an impudent little minx like me.
Besides, I wanted him to help me, and after a bit I told him so.
Archie--my cousin, you know; he was only a boy then--was mad on
card-playing at that time. And I was real worried about him. I knew he
would get into a hole sooner or later, and I begged my surly Englishman
to keep an eye on him. Oh, I was a fool! I was a brainless, chattering
fool! And I'm not much better now, I often think."
Cynthia's hand went up to her eyes. The vision in the fire was all
blurred and indistinct.
Babbacombe was leaning forward, listening intently. The firelight
flickered on his face, showing it very grave and still. He did not
attempt to speak.
Nevertheless, after a moment, Cynthia made a wavering movement with one
hand in his direction.
"I'm not crying, Jack. Don't be silly! I'm sure your cigarette is out.
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