in your own interests, to put yours and Angela’s to the test.  The terms that I can offer you are these.  You must leave here to-morrow, and must give me your word of honour as a gentleman—­which I know will be the most effectual guarantee that I can take from you—­that you will not for the space of a year either attempt to see Angela again, or to hold any written communication with her, or anybody in any way connected with her.  The year ended, you can return, and, should you both still be of the same mind, you can then marry her as soon as you like.  If you decline to accede to these terms—­which I believe to be to your mutual ultimate advantage—­I must refuse my consent to the engagement altogether.”

A silence followed this speech.  The match that Arthur had lit before Philip began, burnt itself out between his fingers without his appearing to suffer any particular inconvenience, and now his pipe fell with a crash into the grate, and broke into fragments—­a fit symbol of the blow dealt to his hopes.  For some moments he was so completely overwhelmed at the idea of losing Angela for a whole long year, losing her as completely as though she were dead, that he could not answer.  At length he found his voice, and said, hoarsely: 

“Yours are hard terms.”

“I cannot argue the point with you, Heigham; such as they are, they are my terms, founded on what I consider I owe to my daughter.  Do you accept them?”

“I cannot answer you off-hand.  My happiness and Angela’s are too vitally concerned to allow me to do so.  I must consult her first.”

“Very good, I have no objection; but you must let me have your answer by ten to-morrow.”

Had Arthur only known his own strength and Philip’s weakness—­the strength that honesty and honour ever have in the face of dishonour and dishonesty—­had he known the hesitating feebleness of Philip’s avarice-tossed mind, how easy it would have been for him to tear his bald arguments to sheds, and, by the bare exhibition of unshaken purpose, to confound and disallow his determinations—­had he then and there refused to agree to his ultimatum, so divided was Philip in his mind and so shaken by superstitious fears, that he would have accepted it as an omen, and have yielded to a decision of character that had no real existence in himself.  But he did not know; indeed, how could he know? and he was, besides, too thorough a gentleman to allow himself to suspect foul play.  And so, too sad for talk, and oppressed by the dread sense of coming separation from her whom he loved more dearly than his life, he sought his room, there to think and pace, to pace and think, until the stars had set.