thin and sharp with anxiety. "I can do anything. I don't want to live
on charity. I can work. I'd love to work--for you."

"You're a rum little devil, aren't you?" said Saltash.

"I'm honest, sir! Really I'm honest!" Desperately the bony hands clung.
"You won't be sorry if you take me. I swear you'll never be sorry!"

"What about you?" said Saltash. He was looking down into the upraised
face with a semi-quizzical compassion in his own. "Think you'd never be
sorry either?"

A sudden smile gleamed across the drawn face. "Of course I shouldn't!
You're English."

"Ah!" said Saltash, with a faintly wry expression. "Not necessarily white
on that account, my friend, so don't run away with that idea, I beg! I'm
quite capable of giving you a worse drubbing than the good Antonio, for
instance, if you qualified for it. I can be a terrifically wild beast
upon occasion. Look here, you imp! Are you starved or what? Do you want
something to eat?"

The wiry fingers tightened on his arm. "No, sir--no, my lord--not really.
I often don't eat. I'm used to it."

"But why the devil not?" demanded Saltash. "Didn't they feed you over
there?"

"Yes--oh, yes. But I didn't want it. I was--too miserable." The blue eyes
blinked rapidly under his look as if half-afraid of him.