“How do, Santorex?”
He thus unceremoniously addressed stared, as well he might. This was Western brusquerie with a vengeance, he thought.
“Confound it! am I altered so dead out of all recognition?” said the other with a careless laugh, standing full in the light.
“Why, no—that is, yes. We none of us grow younger in twenty years. Well, well, Ralph. I’m heartily glad to see you, heartily glad.” And the two men grasped hands in thorough ratification of the sentiment.
“No, by George! I should never have known you,” went on Mr Santorex. “And Chickie, here, called you something else just now—what the deuce was it?”
“Vipan? Yes, it was an old name in the family at one time. I’ve revived it lately for my own convenience. That’s how I was known out West.”
“Think you’d have known the child here?” went on “the child’s” father, turning to Yseulte, who had followed him into the room, and was now staring in amazement at this new revelation.
“Well, I’ve had rather the advantage of her; a mean advantage she’ll say.”
“She” was incapable of saying anything just then. That photograph of the disinherited Ralph Vallance, which, since her return home, she had managed to conjure out of her father’s boxes of old correspondence, and had treasured because it bore some slight resemblance to her dead lover, now turned out to be nothing less than his actual portrait. Yet during all their daily intercourse, so well had he guarded his secret, that not a shadow of a passing instinct had ever warned her of his identity. It was astounding.
“Been to call on Dudley yet, Ralph?” said Mr Santorex, with a twinkle in his eye.