Fergus coloured up, speechless between pleasure at the warm tone of commendation and the obligations of school-boy honour, nor, with young Campbell on their hands, was there space for questions. That youth subsided into a heavy doze in the cab, and so continued till the arrival at No. 7, Devereux Buildings, where a capable-looking maid-servant opened the door, and he was deposited into her hands, the Vicar leaving his card with his present address, but feeling equal to nothing more, and hardly able to speak.
He drove home, finding his nephew in the doorway. Signing to the maid to pay the driver, and to the boy to follow him, he reached his study, and sank into his easy-chair, Adrian opening frightened eyes and saying—
“I’ll call Sibby.”
“No—that bottle—drop to there,” signing to the mark on the glass with his nail.
After a pause, while he held fast the boy, so to speak, with his eyes, he said—
“Thank you, dear lad.”
“Uncle Clement,” said Adrian then, “we weren’t doing anything. Merrifield thought his old bit of auralia, or whatever he calls it, was there.”
“I saw—I saw, my boy. To find you—as you were, made me most thankful. You must have resisted. Tell me, were you of this party, or did you come on them by accident?”
“Horner asked me,” said Adrian, twisting from one leg to another.
Clement saw the crisis was come which he had long expected, and rejoiced at the form it had taken, though he knew he should suffer from pursuing the subject.