“When?  Going abroad again?”

“To Sicily.”

“Ha!—­that means, I conjecture,” said Denzil, searching his friend’s face, “that a certain affair will come to nothing after all?”

“And what if you are right?” returned the other, slowly, averting his eyes.

“I sha’n’t grieve.  No, to tell you the truth, I shall not!  So at last I may speak my real opinion.  It wouldn’t have done, Glazzard; it was a mistake, old fellow.  I have never been able to understand it.  You—­a man of your standing—­no, no, it was completely a mistake, believe me!”

Glazzard looked into the speaker’s face, smiled again, and remarked calmly: 

“That’s unfortunate.  I didn’t say my engagement was at an end; and, in fact, I shall be married in a fortnight.  We go to Sicily for the honeymoon.”

A flush of embarrassment rose to Denzil’s face.  For a moment he could not command himself; then indignation possessed him.

“That’s too bad!” he exclaimed.  “You took advantage of me.  You laid a trap.  I’m damned if I feel able to apologize!”

Glazzard turned away, and it seemed as if he would walk on.  But he faced about again abruptly, laughed, held out his hand.

“No, it is I who should apologize.  I did lay a trap, and it was too bad.  But I wished to know your real opinion.”

No one more pliable than Denzil.  At once he took the hand that was offered and pressed it heartily.

“I’m a blundering fellow.  Do come and spend an hour with me to-night.  From eleven to twelve.  I dine out with fools, and shall rejoice to see you afterwards.”

“Thanks, I can’t.  I go up to town by the 7.15.”

They were in a suburban road, and at the moment some ladies approached.  Quarrier, who was acquainted with them, raised his hat and spoke a few hasty words, after which he walked on by Glazzard’s side.

“My opinion,” he said, “is worth very little.  I had no right whatever to express it, having such slight evidence to go upon.  It was double impertinence.  If you can’t be trusted to choose a wife, who could?  I see that—­now that I have made a fool of myself.”

“Don’t say any more about it,” replied the other, in a good-natured voice.  “We have lived in the palace of truth for a few minutes, that’s all.”

“So you go to Sicily.  There you will be in your element.  Live in the South, Glazzard; I’m convinced you will be a happier man than in this mill-smoke atmosphere.  You have the artist’s temperament; indulge it to the utmost.  After all, a man ought to live out what is in him.  Your wedding will be here, of course?”

“Yes, but absolutely private.”

“You won’t reject me when I offer good wishes?  There is no man living who likes you better than I do, or is more anxious for your happiness.  Shake hands again, old fellow.  I must hurry off.”

So they parted, and in a couple of hours Glazzard was steaming towards London.