Lewis drove over to dine some four days later with dismal presentiments.  The same hopeless self-contempt which had hung over him for weeks was still weighing on his soul.  He dreaded the verdict of Alice’s eyes, and in a heart which held only kindness he looked for a cold criticism.  It was this despair which made his position hopeless He would never take his chance; there could be no opportunity for the truth to become clear to both; for in his plate-armour of despair he was shielded against the world.  Such was his condition to the eyes of a friend; to himself he was the common hopeless lover who sighed for a stony mistress.

He noticed changes in Glenavelin.  Businesslike leather pouches stood in the hall, and an unwontedly large pile of letters lay on a table.  The drawing-room was the same as ever, but in the dining-room an escritoire had been established which groaned under a burden of papers.  Mr. Wishart puzzled and repelled him.  It was a strong face, but a cold and a stupid one, and his eyes had the glassy hardness of the man without vision.  He was bidden welcome, and thanked in a tactless way for his kindness to Mr. Wishart’s daughter.  Then he was presented to Mrs. Andrews, and his courage sank as he bowed to her.

At table the lady twitted him with graceful badinage.  “Alice and you must have had a gay time, Mr. Haystoun.  Why, you’ve been seeing each other constantly for months.  Have you become great friends?” She exerted herself, for, though he might be a parvenu, he was undeniably handsome.

Mr. Stocks explained that Mr. Haystoun had organized wonderful picnic parties.  The lady clapped her many-ringed hands, and declared that he must repeat the experiment.  “For I love picnics,” she said, “I love the simplicity and the fresh air and the rippling streams.  And washing up is fun, and it is such a great chance for you young men.”  And she cast a coy glance over her shoulder.

“Do you live far off, Mr. Haystoun?” she asked repeatedly.  “Four miles?  Oh, that’s next door.  We shall come and see you some day.  We have just been staying with the Marshams—­Mr. Marsham, you know, the big cotton people.  Very vulgar, but the house is charming.  It was so exciting, for the elections were on, and the Hestons, who are the great people in that part of the country, were always calling.  Dear Lady Julia is so clever.  Did you ever meet Mr. Marsham, by any chance?”

“Not that I remember.  I know the Hestons of course.  Julia is my cousin.”

The lady was silenced.  “But I thought,” she murmured.  “I thought—­they were—­” She broke off with a cough.

“Yes, I spent a good many of my school holidays at Heston.”

Alice broke in with a question about the Manorwaters.  The youthful Mr. Thompson, who, apart from his solicitor’s profession, was a devotee of cricket, asked in a lofty way if Mr. Haystoun cared for the game.

“I do rather.  I’m not very good, but we raised an eleven this year in the glen which beat Gledsmuir.”