you my name. It’s Rattray, of one of the many Kirby Halls in this country. My one’s down in Lancashire.”
“I suppose there’s no need to tell my name?” said I, less sadly, I daresay, than I had ever yet alluded to the tragedy which I alone survived. It was an unnecessary allusion, too, as a reference to the foregoing conversation will show.
“Well, no!” said he, in his frank fashion; “I can’t honestly say there is.”
We took a few puffs, he watching the fire, and I his firelit face.
“It must seem
glittering glass, the cool white napery, the poor old dried dessert in the green dishes! Earlier, this had occupied my mind an hour; now I dismissed it in a moment; there was Eva, I must live for her; there must be ways of living at least a day or two without sustenance, and I must think of them.
So