“You have not been to Lidford since I left England, I suppose?”

“Yes; I was at Heatherly a week or two in the winter.  Poor old David Forster would not let me alone until I went down to him.  He was ill, and in a very dismal condition altogether, abandoned by the rest of his cronies, and a close prisoner in the house which has so many painful associations for him.  It was a work of charity to bear him company.”

“Did you see Captain Sedgewick, or Marian, while you were down there?”

“No.  I should have liked to have called upon the kind old Captain; but Forster was unconscionably exacting,—­there was no getting away from him.”

Gilbert stepped with his friend until late that night, smoking and drinking a mild mixture of brandy and soda-water, and talking of the things that had been doing on this side of the globe while he had been on the other.  No more was said about Marian, or Gilbert’s plans for the future.  In his own mind that one subject reigned supreme, shutting out every other thought; but h did not want to make himself a nuisance to John Saltram, and he knew that there are bounds to the endurance of which friendship is capable.

The two friends seemed cheerful enough as they smoked their cigars in the summer dusk, the quiet of the flagged court below rarely broken by a passing footfall.  It was the pleasantest evening which Gilbert Fenton had spent for a long time, in spite of the heavy burden on his mind, in spite of the depressing view which Mr. Saltram took of his position.

“Dear old John,” he said, as they shook hands at parting, “I cannot tell you what a happiness it has been to me to see you again.  We were never separated so long before since the day when I ate my first dinner at Balliol.”

The other seemed touched by this expression of regard, but disinclined to betray his emotion, after the manner of Englishmen on such occasions.

“My dear Gilbert, it ought to be very pleasant to me to hear that.  But I doubt if I am worthy of so much.  As far as my own liking for you goes, there is no inequality between us; but you are a better fellow than I am by a long way, and are not likely to profit much in the long-run by your friendship for a reprobate like me.”

“That’s all nonsense, John.  That kind of vague self-accusation means nothing.  I have no doubt I shall live to see you a great man, and to be proud enough of being able to claim you as the chosen friend of my youth.  Mr. Branston’s death has cleared the way for you.  The chances of a distinguished future are within your grasp.”

“The chances within my grasp!  Yes.  My dear Gilbert, I tell you there are some men for whom everything in this world comes too late.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Only that I doubt if you will ever see me Adela Branston’s husband.”

“I can’t understand you, John.”

“My dear fellow, there is nothing strange in that.  There are times when I cannot understand myself.”