effect on me—just when you came here and sat down. I have a letter from him, too, today, with all sorts of messages from himself and his bride, a regular turtle-dove letter. Ah, the lucky people in this world! What good thing that there are some.!» He paused, reflectively. I did not break the silence ensuing. All at once «Teremtette!» he exclaimed, with a short laugh, of no particular merriment,—«what must you think of me, my dear sir! Pray pardon me! To be talking along—all this personal, sentimental stuff—rubbish—to a perfect stranger! Idiotic!» He frowned irritably, the lines in his brow showing clear. He was looking me in the eyes with a mixture of, shall I say, antagonism and appeal; psychic counter-waves of inward query and of outward resistance.... of apprehension, too. Then, again he said most formally. «I never talked this way with any one—at least never till now. I am an idiot! I beg your pardon.»
«You haven't the slightest need to beg it,» I answered, «much less to feel the least discomfort in having spoken so warmly of this
