“Oh, yes, she has her feelings about you!” said Duncombe, with confidence.  “But I don’t know what they are.  She wasn’t particularly communicative on that point.”

“Or you, my son, were not particularly penetrating,” suggested Hone.

“I certainly didn’t penetrate far,” Duncombe confessed.  “It was a case of ‘No admission to outsiders.’  Still, I kept my eyes open on your behalf; and the conclusion I arrived at was that, though reticent where you were concerned, she was by no means indifferent.”

Hone stooped and picked up his dumb-bells once more.

“Your conclusions are not always very convincing, Teddy,” he remarked.

Duncombe got to his feet in leisurely preparation for departure.

“There was no mistake as to her reticence anyhow,” he observed.  “It was the more conspicuous, as all the rest of us were yelling ourselves hoarse in your honour.  I was watching her, and she never moved her lips, never even smiled.  But her eyes saw no one else but you.”

Hone grunted a little.  He was poising the dumb-bells at the full stretch of his arms.

Duncombe still loitered at the open window.

“And her name is Nina Perceval,” he said abruptly, shooting out the words as though not quite certain of their reception.

The dumb-bells crashed to the ground.  Hone wheeled round.  For a single instant the Irish eyes flamed fiercely; but the next he had himself in hand.

“A pretty little plan, by the powers!” he said, forcing himself to speak lightly.  “But it won’t work, my lad.  I’m deeply grateful all the same.”

“Rats, man!  She is sure to marry again.”  Duncombe spoke with deliberate carelessness.  He would not seem to be aware of that which his friend had suppressed.

“That may be,” Hone said very quietly.  “But she will never marry me.  And—­faith, I’ll be honest with you, Teddy, for the whole truth told is better than a half-truth guessed—­for her sake I shall never marry another woman.”

He spoke with absolute steadiness, and he looked Duncombe full in the eyes as he said it.

A brief silence followed his statement; then impulsively Duncombe thrust out his hand.

“Hone, old chap, forgive me!  I’m a headlong, blundering jackass!”

“And the best friend a man ever had,” said Hone gently.  “It’s an old story, and I can’t tell you all.  It was just a game, you know; it began in jest, but it ended in grim earnest, as some games do.  It happened that time we travelled out together, eight years ago.  I was supposed to be looking after her; but, faith, the monkey tricked me!  I was a fool, you see, Teddy.”  A faint smile crossed his face.  “And she gave me an elderly spinster to dance attendance upon while she amused herself.  She was only a child in those days.  She couldn’t have been twenty.  I used to call her the Princess, and I was St. Patrick to her.  But the mischief was that I thought her free, and—­I made love to her.”  He paused a moment.  “Perhaps it’s hardly fair to tell you this.  But you’re in love yourself; you’ll understand.”