I had held myself a canny fellow, not an easy prey to adventurers;
a fairly decent one, too, who didn't lie to a king's officer or help
treasonable plots. Yet had I not done just those things by my silence
on the steamer? And for what reason? Upon my soul I didn't know, unless
because she had gray eyes.
"Hang it all!" I exclaimed, flinging my unlucky paper into a corner, and
becoming aware too late that Van Blarcom was observing me with a grin.
"I've got the black butterflies, as the French say," I explained
savagely. "This mountain travel is maddening; one might as well be a
snail."
"Sure, a slow train's tiresome," agreed Van Blarcom. "Specially if
you're not feeling overpleased with life anyway," he added, with a
knowing smile.
An angry answer rose to my lips, but the Mont Cenis tunnel opportunely
enveloped us, and in the dark half-hour transit that followed I regained
my self-control. It was not worth while, I decided, to quarrel with the
fellow, to break his head or to give him the chance of breaking mine.
After all, I thought low-spiritedly, what right had I to look down on
him? We were pot and kettle, indistinguishably black.
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