You've not treated me well. I got you the post, and
it is I you should go out with, not Hamar."
And in the quiet nooks and corners, perched on the window-sill, with
one eye kept warily on the guard for fear of interruptions, he told
her his history--all about himself from the day of his birth--told her
about his parents, his childhood, his schooldays, his hobbies and
cranks, his indiscretions, extravagancies, his carousals, debts,
flirtations, with just an excusable amount of exaggeration. He even
went so far as to speak of a chronic rheumatism, of a twinge of
hereditary gout, and of a slightly hectic cough with which, he
suddenly remembered, he had at one time, been troubled.
"Don't you think," Lilian Rosenberg said, with mock earnestness, "you
are somewhat rash! Have you forgotten that no woman can keep a
secret--and you are not telling me one secret but many. Supposing in a
fit of thoughtlessness or absent-mindedness, I were to divulge them! I
should never forgive myself."
"Would it distress you so much?"
"Of course it would. I should be miserable," she laughed. And Kelson,
unable to restrain himself, seized her hands and smothered them with
kisses.
"Your fingers would look well covered with rings," he said. "I will
give you some, and you shall come with me and choose. Only on no
account tell Hamar." And he kissed her--not on the hands this
time--but the lips.
Hamar saw him. He watched him from behind the angle of the passage
wall, but he said nothing--at least, nothing to Kelson.
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