"Shall I tell you a story, Boodle-oodle, a beautiful story of a little girl who wasn't what she thought she was, though she didn't know who she was, and didn't care, and wouldn't think, and couldn't listen when people tried to tell her? Shall I tell you all that, darling?"
"Not now," gasped Boodles. "I must go and dress. And I shall laugh as much as I like – mean old thing! Telling me I mustn't laugh, and then shaking the house down. Dad, if you go on making explosions you'll bring up rain-clouds, and my afternoon will be spoilt, and so will my frock; and then I shall have to tell you a story of a horrid old man, who wasn't a bit like what he hoped his daughter thought he was, though he didn't know how horrid he was, and didn't care, and wouldn't listen when people tried to tell him. Well, I'll give you a kiss anyhow, though you are mad."
"Not daughter," cried the excited old man. "Remember you are not my daughter, Boodles."
"I know. You needn't rub it in."
"I've got the Brute! I've got him by the neck. He's made me suffer, but I'll pay him now. Run away, darling. Run away and put on your white muslin. Laugh as much as you can, and be as pretty as you like. The Brute shan't touch you. I'll put a muzzle on him. Don't forget to tell them I am not your father. I've got the whole story in my head. Run away, little girl, while I think it out."
Boodles was used to these fits, but usually she understood them. They were generally provoked by rabbit-traps. She could not understand this one. Evidently the old man had got hold of something new; but she couldn't stop any longer, as it was nearly time to go down to the Tavy and turn up the stones to look for fairies.
Weevil certainly had got hold of something new. When Boodles had gone he jumped up and locked the door. Then he looked at his watch. Mr. Bellamie might arrive at any time; and he was not nearly ready. He began to jump about the room in a most eccentric way, snapping his fingers, and grinning at his comic features in the mantel-glass.
"You've got to be a liar, Abel-Cain, the worst liar that ever lived, as big a rogue as your namesake Cain, who murdered your namesake Abel. You're an old man, and you ought not to do it, but if lies can save her from the Brute lies shall. They'll punish you for it when you're dead, but if she is saved no matter, none at all. I shall tell them they ought not to have created the Brute. I won't be afraid of them. Now you mustn't make a mess of it. I'm afraid you will, Abel-Cain. You're a shocking old fool sometimes. Put it all down – write it out, then learn it by heart. The old hands are shaking so. Steady yourself, old fool, for her sake, for the sake of that pretty laugh. Come along now! Abel-Cain versus the Brute. We must begin with the marriage."
He pressed his cold hands upon his hot face, and began to scribble tremulously on the paper.
"You were married at the age of twenty-five to a girl who was superior to you socially. Her name – let me see – what was her name? You must find one that sounds well. Fitzalan is a good name. You married Miss Fitzalan at – at, why, of course, St. George's, Hanover Square. She's dead now. She died of – of, well, it don't matter; she's dead. We had a daughter, or was it a son? Better keep to one sex, and then there will be no saying hims for hers, and you mustn't get confused, Abel-Cain, you must keep your brain as clear as glass. We had a daughter, and called her – now it must be something easy to remember. Titania is a pretty name. We called her Tita for short, Titania Fitzalan-Weevil That's it! You are doing it, Abel-Cain! Keep it up, you old liar. He'll be here presently. You took the name of Fitzalan-Weevil because it sounded better, but when your wife died you went back to your own. She was buried in Hendon churchyard. You don't know why it should be Hendon. Ah yes, you do, Abel-Cain. Don't you remember how you used to walk along that road on Sundays and holidays, and have some bread and cheese in the little tea-garden at Edgware; and then by Mill Hill and Arkley to Barnet, and back by Hampstead Heath to your lodgings in Kentish Town? That's why your wife was buried in Hendon churchyard. Then Titania was married, a very grand marriage, Hanover Square again. It's a pity you haven't got the press-cuttings, but they are lost – burnt, or something of the sort – and Titania's husband was the youngest son of the Earl of – No, that won't do. You mustn't lie too high, or you'll spoil the story. He was Mr. Lascelles, Harold Lascelles, second son of the late Reverend Henry Arthur Lascelles, sometime rector of St. Michael's, Cornhill, and honorary canon of St. Paul's Cathedral. Drag the clergy in, Abel-Cain. It's respectable. They lived in Switzerland for his health. You remember he was rather delicate, and Titania wasn't very strong either; and Boodles was born there. It's working out fine. You can't be her father, but you can be her grandfather. Boodles was born in Lausanne, at the hotel where Gibbons wrote his history.
"Now you come to the mystery; there must be a mystery about Boodles, but it must be respectable, a tragedy in high life, a regrettable incident, not a shameful episode. Titania disappeared. What happened to her nobody knows. You don't know, and Harold doesn't know. She may have gone for a walk in the mountains and never come back, or she may have gone out in a boat on Lake Geneva and been drowned, or she may have been murdered by a madman in a pine-wood. It was all very sad and dreadful, and has naturally cast a cloud over Boodles's life, though she knows nothing about it, as she was scarcely a year old when her mother disappeared. You have never got over it, Abel-Cain, and you don't think you ever will, as Titania was your only child. You couldn't bear to keep any of her photographs, so you destroyed them all.
"Now there is Harold. You can't kill him, Abel-Cain. So much mortality might be suspicious, and if you let him marry again that would mean a lot more names to remember. Harold went into the Catholic Church and became a priest. At the present time he is in charge of a mission in British Guiana. That's a good long way off, but you must look it up in the map and make sure where it is."
The old man leaned back and mopped his face. He was working under a kind of inspiration, and was afraid it might die out before he had got to the end of the story. Again he plunged into the narrative, and continued —
"Harold didn't know what to do with Boodles. Young Catholic priests cannot be bothered with babies, so he sent her to you, to old grandfather, and asked you to bring her up. He couldn't pay anything, as he had devoted his fortune to building a church and establishing his mission, and besides, you didn't need it in those days, He was a good fellow, Harold, an earnest, devoted man, but you haven't heard anything of him for a long time. You called the child Boodles when she was a baby because it was the sort of name that seemed to suit her, and you have never got out of it. Her real name is – There must be a lot of them. They always have a lot in high life. No girl with a long string of names could be anything but well-born. Her name is Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles."
He read out the list again and again, grinning and crying at the same time, and chuckling joyfully: "There's nothing of the Weevil in her now."
"Then there came the smash," he went on, resuming his pen to add the finishing touches to the story. "You lost your money. It was gold-mines. That is quite safe. One always loses money in gold-mines, and you were never much of a man of business, always ready to listen to any one, and so you were caught. You retired with what little you could reclaim from the wreck of your shattered fortunes – that's a fine sentence. You must get that by heart. It would convince any one that you couldn't tell a lie. You retired, broken in health and mind and fortune, to this little cottage on Dartmoor, and you have lived here ever since with Boodles, whom you have brought up to the best of your ability, although you have lacked the means to give her that education to which she is entitled by her name and birth. It is almost unnecessary to add, Abel-Cain," he concluded, "that you have told the child nothing about her parents lest she should become dissatisfied with her present humble position. You are keeping it all from her until she comes of age."
It was finished. Weevil stared at the blotted manuscript, jabbered over it, and decided that it was a strong and careful piece of work which would deceive any one, even the proudest father of an only son who was much too precious to be thrown away. He was still jabbering when there were noises outside the door, and he hurried to open it, and discovered Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles, looking every syllable of her names; her beautiful hair coiled under her poppy-trimmed hat, the white muslin about her dainty limbs, her lips and little nostrils sweet enough to attract bees with their suggestion of honey, and about her that wonderful atmosphere of perfect freshness which is the monopoly of such pretty creatures as herself.
"You're looking quite wild, old man. What have you been doing?" she said.
"Story-writing. About the little girl who – "
"I can't stop to listen. I must hurry. I just came to say good-bye," she said, putting up her mouth. "Be good while I am gone. Don't fall into the fire or play with the matches. You can say if this frock suits me."
"If I was a boy I shouldn't bother whether it suited you or not," said Weevil, nodding at her violently.
"But as you are only an old daddy-man?" she suggested.
"It will do, Boodle-oodle. Sackcloth would look quite as well – on you."
"I'll wear sackcloth presently; when Aubrey goes and winter comes," she laughed.
Weevil became excited again. He wished she would not make such heedless and innocent remarks. They suggested the possibility of weak points in his amazing story. Another unpleasant idea occurred as he looked at the charming little maid. She was always walking about the moor alone. The Brute might seize her in one of his Protean forms, and she might disappear just as her fictitious mother had done. Weevil had invoked his imagination, and as a result all sorts of ghostly things occurred to his mind to which it had been a stranger hitherto. There were traps lying about for girls as well as rabbits.
"Where are you going, little radiance?" he said.
"Down by the Tavy. Our walk. We have only one."
Boodles answered from the door, and then she went. She had only one walk. On all Dartmoor there was only one. Weevil caught up his manuscript and began to jabber again. She must not have that one walk taken away from her.
For two hours he worked, like a student on the brink of an examination, trying to commit his story to memory. Each time he read the fictions they became to him more probable. He scarcely knew himself what a miserable memory he had, but he was well aware how nervous he could be in the presence of strangers, and how liable he was to be confused when any special eccentricity asserted itself. As the time when his visitor might be expected approached he went and put on his best clothes, tidied himself, brushed his hair and whiskers, tried to make himself look less like a Hindoo idol, burnished his queer face with scented soap, and practised a few genteel attitudes before the glass. He hoped somebody had told Mr. Bellamie he was eccentric.
Weevil was still poring over his manuscript when the visitor arrived. With a frantic gesture the old man went to admit him. People were not announced in that household. Mr. Bellamie entered with a kindly handshake and a courteous manner; but his impressions were at once unfavourable. Well-bred men tell much by a glance. The grotesque host, the pictures, furniture, and ornaments, were alike inartistic. Mr. Bellamie was a perfect gentleman. He had come merely as a matter of duty to make the acquaintance of the tenant of Lewside Cottage, not because it was a pleasure, but he had received Boodles at his house, and his son's attachment for the little girl was becoming serious. He could not definitely oppose himself to Aubrey's love-making until he had ascertained what manner of people the Weevils were. The pictures and ornaments told him. The cottage represented poverty, but it was hardly genteel poverty. A poor gentleman's possessions proclaim his station as clearly as those of a retired pork-butcher betray his lack of taste. A few good engravings, a shelf or two of classical works, and a cabinet of old china, would have done more for Boodles than all the wild romances of her putative grandfather.
"You have a glorious view," said the visitor, turning his back upon art that was degraded and rejoicing in that which was natural. "I have been admiring it all the way up from the station. But you must get the wind in the winter time."
"Yes, a great deal of it. But it is very fine and healthy, and we have our windows open most days. Tita insists upon it."
"Tita?" questioned Mr. Bellamie, turning and looking puzzled. "I understood that – "
"Her name is not Boodles," said Weevil decidedly. "That is only a pet name I gave her when she was a baby, and I have never been able to break myself of it. She is my grand-daughter, Mr. Bellamie, and her name is Titania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles," he said, reading carefully from the manuscript. "I think she must have inherited her love of open windows and fresh air from her father, who was the Reverend Henry – no, I mean Harold Lascelles, second son of the Reverend Henry Arthur Lascelles – the late, I should have said – sometime Director of St. Michael's, Cornhill, and minor canon – no, honorary – honorary canon of St. Paul's Cathedral. He was rather delicate and lived in Switzerland a good deal, and died there – no, he didn't, that was Tita's mother. He is in charge of a Catholic mission in British Guiana."
Polite astonishment was upon every feature of the visitor's fragile face. He had not come there to talk about Boodles, but to see Weevil and Lewside Cottage, that he might judge for himself whether the girl could by any chance be considered a suitable subject for Aubrey's adoration; to look at the pictures, and make a few conventional remarks upon the view and the weather; then to return home and report to his wife. He had certainly not expected to find Weevil bubbling over with family history, pedigrees, and social intelligence, regarding the child whom he had been led to suppose was not related to him. Mr. Bellamie glanced at Weevil's excited face, at the pencil he held in one hand and at the sheet of paper in the other; and just then he didn't know what to think. Then he said quietly: "I will sit down if I may. That long hill from the station was rather an ordeal. As you have mentioned your – your grand-daughter, I believe you said, you will, I hope, forgive me if I express a little surprise, as the girl – and a very pretty and charming girl she is – came to see us one day, and on that occasion she distinctly mentioned that she knew nothing of her parents."
Mr. Bellamie would have murmured on in his gentle brook-like way, but Weevil could not suppress himself. While the visitor was speaking he made noises like a soda-water bottle which is about to eject its cork; and at the first opportunity he exploded, and his lying words and broken bits of story flew all about the room.
"Quite true, Mr. Bellamie. Boodles – I mean Tita – was telling you the truth. I have never known her to do the contrary. She has been told nothing whatever of her parents, does not know that her daughter was my mother – "
"You mean that her mother was your daughter," interposed the gentle guest.
"Yes, Mr. Bellamie, that is what I did mean, but I am rather confused. She does not know that her father is living, nor that her rightful name is Lascelles, nor that her paternal grandfather was the rector of St. Michael's, Cornhill, and prebendary of St. Paul's Cathedral – "
"I understood you to say honorary canon," murmured the visitor.
"I am not certain," cried the excited old man, who was by no means sure what a prebendary might be. "It is a long time ago, and some of the facts are not very clear in my mind. You can easily find out," he went on recklessly. "The Reverend Canon Lascelles was a very well-known man. He wrote a number of learned books. I believe he refused a bishopric. Let me see. I was telling you about my little maid. I have kept everything from her because I feared she might be upset if she knew the truth and found out who she was. She mightn't be satisfied to go on living in this little cottage with a poor shabby old man like me, if she knew how well born she was. I am going to tell her everything when she is twenty-one, and then she can choose for herself, whether to remain with me, or to join her father if he wants her in British Guiana."
"There must be some reason," suggested Mr. Bellamie gently, with another wondering glance at Weevil's surprising aspect. "I am not seeking to intrude into any family secret, but you have introduced this subject, and you must permit me to say that I feel interested in the little girl on account of my son's – er – friendship with her."
"I was just coming to it," cried Weevil, exploding again. He was warmed up by this time. He had lost his nervousness, felt he was playing a winning game, and believed he had the story pat. The lies had stuck in his throat at first, as he was a naturally truthful man, but they were coming along glibly now. "You have a right to be told. There is a little mystery about Tita's mother. They were living in Lausanne – Tita was born in the hotel where Gibbings wrote his history – and one day her mother went out and disappeared. She has never been heard of since that day. It is supposed she went for a walk in the mountains. Perhaps she fell down a glacier," he added, brilliantly inspired.
"A crevasse," corrected Mr. Bellamie mildly. "It is hardly likely. Lausanne is not quite among the mountains."
Weevil had not known that. Hurriedly he suggested a fatal boating trip upon the lake of Geneva, and was relieved when the visitor admitted in a slightly incredulous manner that was more probable.
"You have interested me very much," he went on, "and surprised me. You are the girl's grandfather on the mother's side?"
"Yes; and now I must tell you something about myself," said Weevil, with a hurried glance at his notes which the visitor could not help observing. "I am not your social equal, Mr. Bellamie, and I cannot pretend to be. I have not enjoyed the advantages of a public-school and university education, but I was left with a fortune from my father, who was a manufacturer of pianos, at an early age, and I then contracted a marriage with a lady who was slightly older than myself, and very much my superior socially, mentally – possibly physically," he added, with another inspiration, as he caught sight of his comic face in the mantel-glass. "Her name was Miss Fitzalan, and we were married at St. George's, Hanover Square."
The visitor inclined his head, and did so just in time to conceal a smile. Weevil was overacting the part. He was placing an emphasis on every word. In his excitement he dropped the manuscript, without which he was helpless. It fluttered to Mr. Bellamie's feet, and before Weevil could recover it the visitor had a distinct recollection of having read: "Your wife was buried in Hendon churchyard." It was strange, he thought, that a man should require to make a note of his wife's burying-place.
"Titania was our only child," Weevil went on, after refreshing his memory, like a public speaker, with his notes. "She was something like Boodles, only her hair was flaxen, and she was taller and more slim. I am sorry I have not a photograph of her, but after her tragic disappearance I burnt them all. I could not bear to look at them. There was one of her in court dress which you would have liked. Some time after my wife's death I lost my money in gold-mines. It was my own fault. I was foolish, and I listened to the advice of knaves. I came here with what little I could reclaim from the wreck of my shattered fortunes," he said, pausing to notice the effect of that tremendous sentence, and then repeating it with added emphasis. "I settled here, and Father Lascelles, as he was by then, sent me my grandchild and asked me to bring her up as my own. At first I shrank from the responsibility, as I had not the means to educate her as her birth and name require, but I have been given cause every day of my life since to be thankful that I did accept, for she has been the light of my eyes, Mr. Bellamie, the light and the apple of my eyes."
Weevil sank into a chair and wiped his face. His task was done, he had told his story; and he fully believed that Boodles was safe and that the Brute was conquered. The visitor was looking into the interior of his hat. He seemed to have found something artistic there. He coughed, and in his gentle well-bred way observed: "Thank you, Mr. Weevil. You have told me a piece of very interesting family history."
Weevil detected nothing of a suspicious or ironical nature in that admission. He nursed his knee, and wagged his head, and grinned triumphantly as he replied in a naive fashion: "I took the name of Fitzalan-Weevil after my marriage, because I thought it sounded better, but after I lost my wife and fortune I went back to my own."
Mr. Bellamie took another glance round the room, just to make sure he had missed nothing. There might be some little gem of a picture in a dark corner, or a cracked bit of Wedgwood ware, which he had overlooked in the former survey. There might be some redeeming thing, he thought, in the environment which would fit in with the amazing story. The same inartistic features met his eyes: Weevil pictures, Weevil furniture, Weevil carpet and wall-paper. There was nothing to represent the family of Fitzalan or the family of Lascelles. The simple old liar did not know what a powerful advocate was fighting against him, and how his poor little home was giving verdict and judgment against him. The visitor completed his survey, turned his attention to the old man, regarding him partly with contempt and pity, chiefly in admiration. Then he took out his trap and set it cleverly where Weevil could hardly fail to blunder into it.
"I think I knew Canon Lascelles a good many years ago," he said in his gentle non-combative voice. "He was a curious-looking man, if I remember rightly. Tall, stooping very much, with a red face which contrasted strangely with his white hair, and he had a trick of snapping his fingers loudly when excited. Do you recognise the portrait?"
Old Weevil gasped, said he did, declared it was life-like, and then fumbled for his manuscript. Hadn't he made any notes on that subject? There was nothing to help him in the inky scrawl. He was being examined upon unprepared subjects. So there had been a Canon Lascelles in real life, and Mr. Bellamie had known him. Well, there was nothing for it but to agree to all that was said. His imagination would not work upon the spur of the moment, and if he tried to force it he would be sure to contradict himself or become confused. He replied that he distinctly remembered the Canon's trick of snapping his fingers loudly when excited.
"Your daughter married the second son Harold. Of course you knew Philip the eldest. I think his name was Philip?"
"Quite right, Mr. Bellamie, quite right. Philip it was. He went into the Army," gasped Weevil.
"Surely not," said Mr. Bellamie. "Excuse me for contradicting you, but I know he went into the Navy, and I think he is now a captain. Aubrey will tell me. Very possibly my son has met Captain Lascelles, and may indeed have served under him."
Weevil was trying to look contemplative, but succeeding badly. He was digging new ground and striking roots everywhere. There was nothing for it but to admit his mistake. He was old and forgetful. He had probably been thinking of some one else. Of course Philip Lascelles went into the Navy. He had heard nothing of him for years, and was very glad to hear he had risen to the rank of captain.
"Then there was a daughter. Only one, I think?" Mr. Bellamie continued, in his pleasant conversational way.
"That's right," agreed Weevil, longing to add something descriptive, but not venturing. He was not going to be caught again.
"Edith?" suggested the visitor. "I think the name was Edith."
"No," cried Weevil determinedly – he could not resist it; "Katherine. She was the godmother of Boodles – Tita, I mean – and the child was named after her."
"Yes, it is my mistake this time. Katherine of course," agreed Mr. Bellamie. "But I am certain she was the eldest child, and she married young and went to India. She must have been in India when your grandchild was born."
"She came over for the ceremony. Harold was her favourite brother, and when she heard of Tita's birth she came to London as fast as she could," cried Weevil, not realising what a wild thing he was saying.
"To London!" murmured Mr. Bellamie. "The child was baptised at St. Michael's, Cornhill?" he added swiftly.
"No, in Hendon church."
"I thought you said she was born in Lausanne at the Hotel Gibbon?"
"So she was," gasped Weevil, perspiring and distraught. "I mean she was buried in Hendon churchyard."
"What! the little girl – Boodles!" said Mr. Bellamie, laughing gently.
"No, my wife. We were married there." Weevil did not know what he was saying. The pictures and ornaments, which had been his undoing, were dancing about before his eyes.
"You are getting confused," said the gentle visitor. "I understood you to say you were married at St. George's, Hanover Square."
"Ah, but I used to go to Hendon," said Weevil eagerly, nodding, and grinning, and speaking the truth at last. "I used to walk out there on Sundays and holidays, and have bread and cheese in a tea-garden at Edgware, and then go on by Mill Hill and Arkley and round to Barnet, and back across Hampstead Heath to my lodgings in Kentish Town. I was very fond of that walk, but I couldn't do it now, sir. It would be much too far for an old man like me."
Weevil was happy again. He thought he had succeeded in changing the subject, and getting away from the fictitious family of Lascelles. Mr. Bellamie was satisfied too. Canon Lascelles was a fiction with him also. The pictures and furniture had given truthful evidence. Weevil was a fraud, but such a well-meaning pitiable old humbug that the visitor could not feel angry. They had fenced at each other with fictions, and in such delicate play Weevil had not much chance; and his latest and only truthful admission had done for him entirely. Gentlemen of means do not walk up the Edgware Road on Sundays and holidays, and partake of bread and cheese in suburban tea-gardens, and then return to lodgings in Kentish Town.
"Thank you for what you have told me," said Mr. Bellamie, rising and looking into his hat; and then, succumbing to the desire to add the final artistic touch: "I understand you to have said that you were married to Miss Fitzalan in Hendon church, and that your daughter married Mr. Harold Lascelles, who disappeared in an unaccountable fashion in Lausanne?"
"No, no," cried Weevil despairingly. He was tired and had put aside his manuscript. "I never said that. You have got it quite wrong. I was married to Miss Fitzalan in St. Michael's, Brentor, and our daughter Boodles married Philip Lascelles – captain as he now is – at Hendon, and Tita was baptised in St. George's, Hanover Square, and then went to Lausanne to that hotel where Gubbings wrote his history, and there she disappeared – no, not Boodles, but her mother Tita. But she may be alive still. She may turn up some day."
"Then how about Father Lascelles?" suggested Mr. Bellamie.
"Why, he married my daughter Tita," said Weevil rather crossly. "And now he is in British Columbia at his mission. He won't come back to England again. Boodles doesn't know of his existence, but I shall tell her when she is twenty-one."
The visitor smiled rather sadly, and after a moment's hesitation put out his hand. Old Weevil had been turned inside out, and there was nothing in him but a foolish loving heart. Mr. Bellamie understood the position exactly. There was a mystery about the little girl's birth, and it was probably a shameful one, and on that account the old man had concocted his lying story, not for his own sake, but for hers. Mr. Bellamie could not feel angry at the queer shaking figure, with tragedy inside and comedy on its face. Boodles was his all, the only thing he had to love, and he was prepared to do anything which he thought might ensure her happiness. There was something splendid about his lies, which the visitor had to admire although they had been prepared to dupe him. It was not a highly moral proceeding, but it was an artistic one; and Mr. Bellamie was able to forgive anything that was artistic.
"Good-bye," he said, in a perfectly friendly way. "I hope you will come and see me at Tavistock, and look at your tors from my windows."
Weevil returned thanks effusively, happy in the belief that he had played his part well; but it was characteristic of him that his thoughts should be for Boodles rather than for himself. "If you would let her come and see you sometimes it would make her happy. It's a dull life for the little maid here, and she is so bright and full of laughter. I think she laughs too much, and to-day I told her so. There is a lot of cruelty in this world, Mr. Bellamie, and I want to keep her from it. The man who makes a little maid miserable deserves all the cruelty that there is, but it shan't touch Boodles if I can put myself before her and keep it off. I could not see her suffer, I couldn't hear her laugh ring false. I would rather see her dead."
Mr. Bellamie walked away slowly. He had prepared a mild revenge, but he did not execute it. He had intended to tell Weevil a story of a man who took a dog out to sea that he might drown it; but while fastening a stone to its neck the boat overturned, the man was drowned, while the dog swam safely to shore. He thought Weevil might be able to interpret the parable. But when he heard those last words, and saw the love and tenderness on that queer grinning face, he said no more. He walked away slowly, with his eyes upon the ground.