“You must come back, to us, dear Owen—you must come back,” the Canon repeated. “I want many a talk with you yet, and Adrian here will miss the evening confabulations in the smoking-room—eh, Adrian? Stear will hardly be ready for you yet awhile, to our advantage be it spoken, so you must make your home with us in the meanwhile. Come and go quite freely, dear lad.”
“Thank you very much.”
Quentillian felt that he had already said these words all too often, and conscientiously sought to vary the formula.
“It’s been a delightful time altogether, and I’m more than grateful. It’s been wonderful to get such a kind welcome after these years abroad.”
“Ah, dear fellow!”
The Canon’s fine face softened as he laid his arm across the younger man’s shoulders.
“Never doubt your welcome here, Owen,” he said.
Owen suspected significance in the words, and then derided himself.
Whatever his certainties as regarded the Canon, it was with Valeria that Quentillian was concerned, and he could augur nothing from her frank and cordial regret at his departure.
“I shall write to you, Val.”