As they were going towards the drawing-room after dinner he laid his hand on Roland’s arm, holding him back for a minute. And as he stood in the doorway waiting for his friend, Roland felt for the first time a twinge of apprehension as to the outcome of this undertaking. But he could see that Gerald was nervous, and this nervousness of his lent Roland confidence.
“It’s no business of mine, old son,” Gerald began, “I’m awfully glad about you and Muriel and all that, but,” he paused irresolute; he disliked these theatrical situations and did not know how to meet them. “I mean,” he began slowly, then added quietly, anxiously: “It’s all right, isn’t it, old son?”
“Of course,” said Roland. “It’s the most wonderful——”
“I know, I know,” Gerald interrupted, “but wasn’t there, didn’t you tell me about——”
“Oh, that’s finished a long time ago. Don’t worry about that.”
“You see,” Gerald went on, “I should hate to think—— Oh, well, I’m awfully glad about it, and I think you’re both fearfully lucky.”
Two hours later Roland and Muriel stood on the landing saying good-night to one another. She was leaning towards him, across the banisters, as she had leaned that evening three years earlier, but this time he held her hand in his.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am,” he was saying; “I shall dream of you all night long.”
“And so shall I of you.”
“We’re going to be wonderfully happy, aren’t we?”