I hesitated for a moment, for I hardly knew where to begin—the question, so comprehensive and so sudden, took me aback. Dick went on:—
“Art! two things I have always believed; and I won’t give them up without a struggle. One is that there are very few things that, no matter how strange or wrong they look, won’t bear explanation of some kind; and the other is that an honourable man does not grow crooked in a moment. Is there anything, Art, that you would like to tell me?”
“There is, Dick! I have a lot to tell; but won’t you tell me what you wish me to speak about?” I was just going to tell him all, but it suddenly occurred to me that it would be wise to know something of what was amiss with him first.
“Then I shall ask you a few questions! Did you not tell me that the girl you were in love with was not Norah Joyce?”
“I did; but I was wrong. I did not know it at the time—I only found it out, Dick, since I saw you last!”
“Since you saw me last! Did you not then know that I loved Norah Joyce, and that I was only waiting a chance to ask her to marry me?”
“I did!” I had nothing to add here; it came back to me that I had spoken and acted all along without a thought of my friend.
“Have you not of late payed many visits to Shleenanaher; and have you not kept such visits quite dark from me?”
“I have, Dick.”
“Did you keep me ignorant on purpose?”