To be honest, he had, he knew, sometimes imagined a moment when he would take Christine in his arms and say: “Marry me anyhow.” Such an action he knew would be reckless, but he had supposed it would be pleasant. But now there was nothing but bitterness and jealousy in his mood. What did he know or care for such people? he said to himself. What did he know of their standards and their histories? How much of Christine’s story about Linburne was to be believed? What more natural than that they had always loved each other? Some one knew the truth—every one, very likely, except himself. But whom could he ask? He could have believed Nancy on one side as little as Laura on the other.
And as he thought this, he saw coming down the street, Hickson—a witness prejudiced, perhaps, but strictly honest.
For the first time in their short acquaintance, Hickson’s face brightened at the sight of Riatt, and he called out with evident sincerity: “I am glad to see you.”
“I came on rather unexpectedly.”
“I’m glad you did. Quite right.” Hickson stopped at this, and looked at his companion with such wistful uncertainty, that it seemed perfectly natural for Riatt, answering that look, to say:
“You may speak frankly to me, you know.”
Ned took a long breath. “I believe that I may,” he said. “I hope so, anyhow. I haven’t had any one I could be frank with. Between ourselves, Fenimer is no good at all.”
“What, my future father-in-law?”
“Is that what he is?” Hickson asked with, for him, unusual directness.
Riatt’s affirmative was not very decided, and Ned went on: