"But that is not grandfather's fault," she said loyally.
"I do not say it is; it is my misfortune, perhaps. He is not so much a friend of Alfred's as he should be."
"How can you say that?" asked Lily, with a beating heart. "You are wrong--very wrong; grandfather loves Alfred."
"I only judge from what Alfred has told me. So far as regards myself, of course, I can see that your grandfather is not over cordial to me. He has no right to be otherwise; I have been a good friend to his grandson, and I deserve some better return."
"I know, I know, Mr. Sheldrake," said Lily earnestly. "Alfred has told me of your kindness to him. I am very grateful to you for it, believe me."
"Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sheldrake briskly, "you can scarcely refuse me the small favour of a few minutes' quiet conversation with you--although I accept it as a great favour. It is a fine night, and after the heat of the theatre, the air will do you no harm."
She had no power to refuse, and they turned slowly from the door. Near to the house was an arched avenue which led to one of the larger thoroughfares. Not many persons were stirring in this quiet courtway, and thither Mr. Sheldrake led Lily.
"If we walk up and down slowly," he said, "our talking together at this time of night will not attract attention. Pray take my arm."
She laid her hand lightly on his sleeve, and waited anxiously for his next words.
"I hope," he said, looking into her face with an expression of tender solicitude, "that the effects of your faintness have quite passed away."