The thing he had come to say--the
thing he had meant to say--would not be said. Either his
tongue or his resolution failed him, and for the instant he
stood as silent and almost as ill at ease as his companion.
Then all at once inspiration came to him, in the suggestion of
a wellnigh forgotten argument by which he might influence
Chilcote and save his own self-respect. "It's all over,
Chilcote," he said, more quietly; "it has run itself out."
And in a dozen sentences he sketched the story of Lillian
Astrupp--her past relations with himself, her present
suspicions. It was not what he had meant to say; it was not
what he had come to say; but it served the purpose--it saved
him humiliation.
Chilcote listened to the last word; then, as the other
finished, he dropped nervously back into his chair. "Good
heavens! man," he said, "why didn't you tell me--why didn't
you warn me, instead of filling my mind with your political
position? Your political position!" He laughed unsteadily.
The long spells of indulgence that had weakened his already
maimed faculties showed in the laugh, in the sudden breaking
of his voice.
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