“You are unjust,” said Christian.

Mr. Treffry grunted.  “Ah, well!  I like to know where I am.  If I lend money to a man, I like to know whether he’s going to pay it back; I may not care whether he does or not, but I like to know.  The same with other things.  I don’t care what a man has—­though, mind you, Chris, it’s not a bad rule that measures men by the balance at their banks; but when it comes to marriage, there’s a very simple rule, What’s not enough for one is not enough for two.  You can’t talk black white, or bread into your mouth.  I don’t care to speak about myself, as you know, Chris, but I tell you this—­when I came to London I wanted to marry—­I hadn’t any money, and I had to want.  When I had the money—­but that’s neither here nor there!” He frowned, fingering his pipe.

“I didn’t ask her, Chris; I didn’t think it the square thing; it seems that’s out of fashion!”

Christian’s cheeks were burning.

“I think a lot while I lie here,” Mr. Treffry went on; “nothing much else to do.  What I ask myself is this:  What do you know about what’s best for you?  What do you know of life?  Take it or leave it, life’s not all you think; it’s give and get all the way, a fair start is everything.”

Christian thought:  ‘Will he never see?’

Mr. Treffry went on: 

“I get better every day, but I can’t last for ever.  It’s not pleasant to lie here and know that when I’m gone there’ll be no one to keep a hand on the check string!”

“Don’t talk like that, dear!” Christian murmured.

“It’s no use blinking facts, Chris. I’ve lived a long time in the world; I’ve seen things pretty well as they are; and now there’s not much left for me to think about but you.”

“But, Uncle, if you loved him, as I do, you couldn’t tell me to be afraid!  It’s cowardly and mean to be afraid.  You must have forgotten!”

Mr. Treffry closed his eyes.

“Yes,” he said; “I’m old.”

The fan had dropped into Christian’s lap; it rested on her white frock like a large crimson leaf; her eyes were fixed on it.

Mr. Treffry looked at her.  “Have you heard from him?” he asked with sudden intuition.

“Last night, in that room, when you thought I was talking to Dominique—­”

The pipe fell from his hand.

“What!” he stammered:  “Back?”

Christian, without looking up, said: 

“Yes, he’s back; he wants me—­I must go to him, Uncle.”

There was a long silence.

“You must go to him?” he repeated.

She longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, that to move seemed impossible; she remained silent, with folded hands.

Mr. Treffry spoke: 

“You’ll let me know—­before—­you—­go.  Goodnight!”

Christian stole out into the passage.  A bead curtain rustled in the draught; voices reached her.