Lucian had regained much of his usual look and manner, and did not appear to be occupied with anything but the business of his yacht and with the places that he had come to look at.
Now he put down his pipe, which he was preparing to re-light, and, leaning on his elbow, read the letter through, more than once perhaps, for he was a long time silent. Then he looked up at Sylvester.
“I was a fool,” he said, “a fool to be gulled by any evidence against her denial. I ought to have known her better. I wasn’t man enough to trust her. That’s why she has forgotten me.”
Though Sylvester had often said as much to himself, the avowal was startling, in Lucian’s slow, clear voice, the accents hardly varying from those in which a few minutes before he had asked his companion to give him a light.
“You were so young,” he said. “But how—”
“How do I know it now? I don’t know. I found it out by seeing her again. You understand her better.”
“I’d give my right hand never to have been forced to meddle with the matter,” said Syl.
“I want to say,” said Lucian, “that I’m not a dog in the manger. If you could get her—I—I—I think it would be the best thing for her. I—hope you’ll try.”
“I have no reason to think she could care for me,” said Sylvester hurriedly; “but—well, Lucy—of course you know I shall try—some day. And thank you.”
There was silence again, and then Lucian said—