Alice read the lines of distress and disappointment written upon his face, and was very patient with him.
"There isn't a train to London for at least an hour," she said, "and you must not think of going until you have had some tea. Let us return to Doris, and then we will go into the Creamery and have some tea."
"I must beg you to excuse me," said Bernard, stiffly. "I have taken leave of Miss Anderson, and must now bid you good-bye." He held out his hand as he spoke.
Alice perceived that he had been hard hit. "You must not leave me like this," she said, gently. "Mr. Cameron, I thought you and I were friends."
"So we are. You have always been good to me, but----" He stopped short, and his eyes wandered in the direction of the station.
"It is no use thinking of starting to London yet. As I said, there is no train for fully an hour. Tell me," she regarded him very sympathisingly, "what is the matter? Have you and Doris quarrelled?"
Bernard looked at her kind sympathising face and his resolution wavered. "Quarrelled is not the word," he said; adding, with an effort, "I should like to tell you all about it, Miss Sinclair, if I might."
"I wish you would," said Alice, earnestly--it was one cause of her influence with others that she was always in earnest. "Come and let us walk up and down in Cambridge Gardens, where it is quiet. Then we can have a long talk."
They turned into the less frequented street, and walked slowly along, whilst in low, rapid tones Bernard told Alice all his trouble, and especially the grievous fact that his and Doris's letters had been suppressed and kept from them for many months, finally ending by complaining bitterly of Doris's ultimatum.
"Doris must not marry your brother, Miss Sinclair." Bernard's tone was as decided and masterful as the artist's as he concluded with these words: "She must marry me. We loved each other long before your brother ever saw her, and we love each other still--and shall until death."