He had, beyond a doubt, precipitated the marriage, when postponement was the only thing he really cared about.  To abuse himself was one thing, the privilege which an Englishman is ready enough to exercise; to have his thoughts uttered to him by his sister with feminine neatness and candour was quite another matter.  Mrs. Rossall had in vain attempted to stem the flood of wrath rushing Channelwards.  Overcome, she clad herself in meaning silence, until her brother, too ingenuous man, was compelled to return to the subject himself, and, towards the end of the journey, rashly gave utterance to half a wish that he had not left ‘that young fool’ behind.  Mrs. Rossall, herself a little too impetuous when triumph was no longer doubtful, made such pointed remarks on the neglect of good advice that the ire which was cooling shot forth flame in another direction.  Brother and sister arrived at Geneva in something less than perfect amity.  Their real affection for each other was quite capable of bearing not infrequently the strain of irritability on both sides.  A day of mutual causticities had well prepared the ground for the return of good temper, when the arrival of Wilfrid, by astonishing both, hastened their complete reconciliation.  Wilfrid was mysterious; for a week he kept his counsel, and behaved as if nothing unusual had happened.  By that time Mr. Athel’s patience had reached its limit; he requested to be told how matters stood.  Wilfrid, determined not to compromise his dignity by speaking first, but glad enough when his father broached the topic, related the story of his visit to Dunfield.  Possibly he laid needless emphasis on Emily’s unselfish prudence.

‘I fail to see the striking meritoriousness of all that,’ Mr. Athel observed, put into a good humour by the result, and consequently allowing himself a little captiousness.  ’It merely means that she behaved as any woman who respected herself would under the circumstances.  Your own behaviour, on the other hand—­well, let it pass.’

‘I don’t see that I could have acted otherwise,’ said Wilfrid, too contented to care about arguing the point.

‘You of course saw her parents ?’

Wilfrid had given no detailed account of the way in which his interview with Emily had been obtained.  He mentioned it now, his father listening with the frowning smile of a man who judges such puerilities from the standpoint of comfortable middle age.

The tone between them returned before long to the friendliness never previously interrupted.  Mr. Athel shortly wrote a letter to Mr. Baxendale of Dunfield, whom he only knew by name as Beatrice Redwing’s uncle, and begged for private information regarding Emily’s family.  He received a courteous reply, the details not of course wholly palatable, but confirmatory of the modest hopes he had entertained.  This reply he showed to his sister.  Mrs. Rossall raised her eyebrows resignedly, and returned the letter in silence.