‘I do not think you understand how it was, Mr. Fordyce,’ said Clarence, who by this time was quivering and trembling as in his boyish days.
‘No, nor ever wish to do so. Such matters ought to be forgotten, and you don’t look fit to say another word.’
‘Edward will tell you,’ said Clarence, leaning back.
I had the whole written out, and was about to begin, when the person, with whom there was an appointment, was reported, and we knew that the rest of the day was mapped out.
‘Look here,’ said Mr. Fordyce, ‘leave that with me; I can’t give any answer off-hand, except that Don Quixote is come alive again, only too like himself.’
Which was true, for Clarence took long to rally from the effort, and had to be kept quiet for some time in the study where we were left. He examined me on the contents of my paper, and was vexed to hear that I had mentioned the ghost, which he said would discredit the whole. Never was the dear fellow so much inclined to be fretful, and when Martyn restlessly observed that if we did not want him, he might as well go back to the drawing-room, the reply was quite sharp—‘Oh yes, by all means.’
No wonder there was pain in the tone; for the next words, after some interval, were, when two happy voices came ringing in from the garden behind, ‘You see, Edward.’
Somehow I had never thought of Martyn. He had simply seemed to me a boy, and I had decided that Anne would be the crown of Clarence’s labours. I answered ‘Nonsense; they are both children together!’
‘The nonsense was elsewhere,’ he said. ‘They always were devoted to each other. I saw how it was the moment he came into the room.’
‘Don’t give up,’ I said; ‘it is only the old habit. When she knows all, she must prefer—’