So Austin leant back in a lounge chair, crossed his legs, and for an hour discoursed to Sidney about all he had seen and heard. When he at last rose to go, he said:
"Come to us as soon as you can, won't you, Sid?"
Sidney nodded cheerfully.
They had not discussed Mrs. Urquhart at all; but Austin encountered her again in the hall on his way out.
"I want to speak to you for a minute," she said, turning wistful eyes upon him.
Austin followed her like a lamb into the drawing-room, with an uneasy sense of walking into a snare.
"I want you to forgive me," she said, laying her hand gently on his arm. "You went off so suddenly; you would listen to no explanations. I was forced to act so. Your mother implored me. And you know how often I reminded you of the difference in our ages. It is a great mistake for a middle-aged woman to tie a young fellow to herself. It would have ruined your life. If I had consulted my own feelings—"
She paused, and her eyes finished her sentence.
"Oh, that's all right," said Austin awkwardly; "that chapter is closed. Don't for goodness' sake try to open it again."
"Ah, you are hard and unforgiving! Let us close it, by all means, but let us be friends. We live in the same neighbourhood; don't let there be ill-feeling between us. You say you have looked upon this house as a second home. I want you to look upon it in that light still. Come in when you want cheer, or comfort, or advice; let me feel that I can still be a friend to you. I will not speak of myself. I have many lonely hours, and the Major, as you know, does not shine in conversation. But I cannot bear to live amongst you, if you are going to give me the cold shoulder. It is my misfortune to be over-sensitive, and I feel things so much and so deeply!"