"I've something in my
mind--not at all definite yet--in fact, I don't think I
can even outline it to you yet. But I'm sure it will suit
you--that is, if I decide to go on with it--and there ought
to be seven or eight hundred a year for you in it--for life, mind you."
The General's gaze, fastened strenuously upon Thorpe,
shook a little. "That will suit me very well," he declared,
with feeling. "Whatever I can do for it"--he let the
sentence end itself with a significant gesture.
"I thought so, "commented the other, trifling with the
spoon in his cup. "But I want you to be open with me.
I'm interested in you, and I want to be of use to you.
All that I've said, I can do for you. But first,
I'm curious to know everything that you can tell me about
your circumstances. I'm right in assuming, I suppose,
that you're--that you're not any too well-fixed."
The General helped himself to another little glass of brandy.
His mood seemed to absorb the spirit of the liqueur.
"Fixed!" he repeated with a peevish snap in his tone.
"I'm not 'fixed' at all, as you call it. Good God, sir! They
no more care what becomes of me than they do about their
old gloves. I gave them name and breeding and position--and
everything--and they round on me like--like cuckoos."
His pale, bulging eyes lifted their passionless veil
for an instant as he spoke, and flashed with the predatory
fierceness of a hawk.
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