To be sure, it had not always been so, but Paul had outlived his vagabond days and had become thoroughly domesticated; yet there had been a time in his youth when the wandering spirit had filled his soul, when the love of adventure had lent wings to his feet, and the glory of romance had lured him to the lights and shadows of other skies than these.  But Verdayne was older now, very much older!  He had lived his life, he said, and settled down!

In the shade of the tall trees of the park, two men were drinking in the beauties of the season, in all the glory and splendor of its ever-changing, yet ever-enduring loveliness.  One of them was past forty, the ripeness of middle age and the general air of a well-spent, well-directed, and fully-developed life lending to his face and form an unusual distinction—­even in that land of distinguished men.  His companion was a boy of twenty, straight and tall and proud, carrying himself with the regal grace of a Greek god.  He was a strong, handsome, healthy, well-built, and well-instructed boy, a boy at whom any one who looked once would be sure to look the second time, even though he could not tell exactly wherein the peculiar charm lay.  Both men were fair of hair and blue-eyed, with clear, clean skins and well-bred English faces, and the critical observer could scarcely fail to notice how curiously they resembled each other.  Indeed, the younger of the pair might easily have been the replica of the elder’s youth.

When they spoke, however, the illusion of resemblance disappeared.  In the voice of the Boy was a certain vibrant note that was entirely lacking in the deeper tones of the man—­not an accent, nor yet an inflection, but still a quality that lent a subtle suggestion of foreign shores.  It was an expressive voice, neither languorous nor unduly forceful, but strangely magnetic, and adorably rich and full, and musical, thrilling its hearers with its suggestion of latent physical and spiritual force.

On the afternoon of which I write, those two were facing a crisis that made them blind to everything of lesser import.  Paul Verdayne—­the man —­realized this to the full.  His companion—­the Boy—­was dimly but just as acutely conscious of it.  The question had come at last—­the question that Paul Verdayne had been dreading for years.

“Uncle Paul,” the Boy was saying, “what relation are you to me?  You are not really my uncle, though I have been taught to call you so after this quaint English fashion of yours.  I know it is something of a secret, but I know no more!  We are closer comrades, it seems to me—­you and I—­than any others in all the world.  We always understand each other, somehow, almost without words—­is it not so?  I even bear your name, and I am proud of it, because it is yours.  But why must there be so much mystery about our real relationship?  Won’t you tell me just what I am to you?”

The question, long-looked-for as it was, found the elder man all unprepared.  Is any one ever ready for any dire calamity, however certainly expected?  He paced up and down under the tall trees of the park and for a time did not answer.  Then he paused and laid his hand upon the shoulder of the Boy with a tenderness of touch that proved better than any words how close was the bond between them.