But though Colonel Norcott could have talked cheerily and by the hour together to his co-mates on this and similar themes of probably mutual interest, words did not come so readily to his tongue when his only auditor was a man who would probably see neither a pleasant jest nor a subject for self-glorification in the betrayal of a young and trusting girl. For a moment, so embarrassed did this free-and-easy-man of the world find himself, he more than half decided on seeking some other pretext than the real one for the interview he had sought for; time pressed, however, and no other suggestion offering itself, he was fain, _nolens volens_, to pursue his original intention, and make what is called a “clean breast” (though Heaven knows that _his_ would be dirty enough after any amount of sweeping and garnishing) to straightforward, unsophisticated John Beacham. “I want to speak to you, Mr. Beacham,” he said confidentially, “on a subject which--er--er--is one that you cannot fail to be--er--er--interested in; and, at the same time, that I--” he grew more fluent when it was a question of himself--“have very much at heart.” He paused. It was a fairly-rounded period, and one of which he had no reason to be ashamed; but John, who did not seem greatly struck by the merits of this exordium, contented himself for all reply with making a stiff and decidedly uncompromising bow. There was something both of defiance and contempt in the action, and it roused Norcott to the immediate unfolding of his secret. “You will be surprised at what I’m going to say,” he began, stroking his under-lip the while with the smooth gilt knob of his dandy bamboo walking-cane. “Decidedly surprised, I’ll go bail; and so was I myself two hours ago, when I heard what I’m going to tell you. Had no more idea of it, upon my soul and honour, than an infant.” “I beg your pardon, Colonel Norcott,” said John hastily, for his impatience at the other’s delay was beginning to get the better of his politeness. “I should be obliged if you would say anything you have to say to me at once, for I--” “O, nonsense! Stop a minute, man; why, one would think you had the devil and all of business on your hands, or else that you were in a hurry--by George,” he added playfully, “I believe it’s _that_!--to look after your wife.” The colour deepened visibly on John Beacham’s always ruddy cheek at this coarse allusion to the delicate girl, whose beauty he was perhaps fully as capable of appreciating as if he had belonged to the Travellers’, and worn a coat manufactured by Poole.