Then because the old man was kindly and wise and white-headed, Philip told him all that Adelais had said, and how he had promised to take her home with him, and had come unknown to any one to ask before they went whether or not there was any hope for her of the love on which she had so set her heart.

And when Philip was gone the old gentleman called his elder son, Stephen, and asked him—­but warily, lest he should betray Adelais—­ how Maurice bore himself in Stephen’s presence when they were alone together and chanced to speak of her, and if Stephen knew or guessed anything of what was in his mind towards her.  Then the young man understood for the first time all the blindness of his eyes and the dulness of his heart; and the pain and the desolation and the hopelessness of his life that was to be, rose up before him, and he knew that from thenceforth the glory and the light of it were put out for ever.

“Father,” he said, “I know nothing whatever of all this.  Is it your wish then that these two should marry?”

“It is my wish, Stephen, and the wish also of our friend Philip himself.  Maurice could not take with him to India a sweeter or a worthier wife than Adelais Cameron.”

“And does she wish it too?” he asked again.  “Tell me, father, for I have guessed already.”  He lifted his eyes to the old man’s face as he spoke, and perceived at once the sudden confusion arid surprise that his words had caused there, yet he said no more, but waited still for a reply.

“My dear boy,” said the old gentleman at last, “if you have guessed anything, that is enough; say no more about it, but let it rest with yourself.  I have never yet deceived either of my sons.  But when Maurice comes home again you can help us very much, for you can question him on the matter more naturally than I could do, and no doubt he will tell you his mind about it, as you say he always does about everything, but with me he might be reserved and bewildered perhaps.  Ask him, my boy, but keep your guesses to yourself.”

“Father,” cried Stephen, pressing his hands together in agony as though his heart were between them, and he would fain crush it into dust and destroy it for ever; “tell me, if I am to do this, does Adelais love my brother?”

“If I tell you at all, boy,” said the wine-merchant, “I shall tell you the truth; can you hold your peace like a man of discretion?”

“I have kept other secrets, father,” he answered, “I can keep this.”

Then his father told him.

Early in May, Adelais Cameron went to the Devonshire sea-coast with her brother and her aunt, and they stayed there together a long while.  But the accounts that came from week to week to Kensington were none of the best, for Adelais had borne the long journey but ill, and her strength did not return.  Then came the summer and the vacation-time, and Maurice Gray was home again, full to the brim of schemes