Even apart from the news of his marriage, he looked for something of coolness. He knew that the eight years' absence had given displeasure, and it had not occurred to him that sorrow might have been so much stronger than displeasure as to render joy at his coming the predominant sensation.
Whatever kind of reception he had pictured to himself as probable, he certainly had not pictured this—the old man's two hands clasping his in a fervent grasp, the faltering voice scarcely able to articulate, the stately grey head bent and trembling.
"My dear fellow!" came again, and then, "I must sit down."
"You are not well?"
"Nothing, nothing—only the suddenness. Yes, quite well; it is nothing."
"I ought to have given warning. How thoughtless of me!" said Harvey, really contrite. "This way—" and he guided Mr. Dalrymple's uncertain steps to an armchair. "I am sorry to have startled you so much."
Mr. Dalrymple motioned him to a second chair close by. Harvey obeyed the gesture, and watched in grave silence the lessening tremulousness.
"Hermione has not mentioned your health in writing," he said at length; "and I did not suppose—"
"Nothing whatever is wrong with my health! Nothing whatever." Mr. Dalrymple spoke almost testily. The very idea seemed to act as a tonic, and he sat upright, looked braced. "No, I am only getting old; and there is no cure for old age. But you have been much in my mind lately. I have purposed to write, pressing for your return. It seemed to me that the time had come."
"One hardly realises how the years fly," Harvey remarked a little constrainedly.