sure. Well, well, we were all young once, Thyra — all young once, even crooked little August Vorst. Eh, now?”
“What do you mean?” said Thyra.
She had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands folded in her lap. Her face, always pale, had not changed; but her lips were curiously white. August Vorst saw this and it pleased him. Also, her eyes were worth looking at, if you liked to hurt people — and that was the only pleasure August took in life. He would drink this delightful cup of revenge for her long years of disdainful kindness — Ah, he would drink it slowly to prolong its sweetness. Sip by sip — he rubbed his long, thin, white hands together — sip by sip, tasting each mouthful.
“Eh, now? You know well enough, Thyra.”
“I know nothing of what you would be at, August Vorst. You speak of my son and Damaris — was that the name? — Damaris Garland as if they were something to each other. I ask you what you mean by it?”
“Tut, tut, Thyra, nothing very terrible. There’s no need to look like that about it. Young men will be young men to the end of time, and there’s no harm in Chester’s liking to look at a lass, eh, now? Or in talking to her either? The little baggage, with the red lips of her! She and Chester will make a
