I have explained thus much about these two friends—­lovers that may be, or might have been—­because they never would have done it themselves.  Neither was given to much speaking.  Indeed, I fear their conversation this day, if recorded, would have been of the most feeble kind—­brief, fragmentary, mere comments on the things about them, or abstract remarks not particularly clever or brilliant.  They were neither of them what you would call brilliant people; yet they were happy, and the hours flew by like a few minutes, until they found themselves back again beside the laurel bush at the gate, when Mr. Roy suddenly said: 

“Do not go in yet.  I mean, need you go in?  It is scarcely past sunset; the boys will not be home for an hour yet; they don’t want you, and I—­I want you so.  In your English sense,” he added, with a laugh, referring to one of their many arguments, scholastic or otherwise, wherein she had insisted that to want meant Anglice, to wish or to crave, whereas in Scotland it was always used like the French manquer, to miss or to need.

“Shall we begin that fight over again?” asked she, smiling; for every thing, even fighting, seemed pleasant today.

“No, I have no wish to fight; I want to consult you seriously on a purely personal matter, if you would not mind taking that trouble.”

Fortune looked sorry.  That was one of the bad things in him (the best man alive have their bad things), the pride which apes humility, the self-distrust which often wounds another so keenly.  Her answer was given with a grave and simple sincerity that ought to have been reproach enough.

“Mr. Roy, I would not mind any amount of trouble if I could be of use to you; you know that.”

“Forgive me!  Yes, I do know it.  I believe in you and your goodness to the very bottom of my heart.”

She tried to say “Thank you,” but her lips refused to utter a word.  It was so difficult to go on talking like ordinary friends, when she knew, and he must know she knew, that one more word would make them—­not friends at all—­something infinitely better, closer, dearer; but that word was his to speak, not hers.  There are women who will “help a man on”—­propose to him, marry him indeed—­while he is under the pleasing delusion that he does it all himself; but Fortune Williams was not one of these.  She remained silent and passive, waiting for the next thing he should say.  It came:  something the shock of which she never forgot as long as she lived; and he said it with his eyes on her face, so that, if it killed her, she must keep quiet and composed, as she did.

“You know the boys’ lessons end next week.  The week after I go—­that is, I have almost decided to go—­to India.”

“To India!”

“Yes, For which, no doubt, you think me very changeable, having said so often that I meant to keep to a scholar’s life, and be a professor one day, perhaps, if by any means I could get salt to my porridge.  Well, now I am not satisfied with salt to my porridge; I wish to get rich.”