Duncombe returned to the table, and laid the picture down with a reluctance which he could scarcely conceal.
"Very nice photograph," he remarked. "Taken locally?"
"I took it myself," Andrew answered. "I used to be rather great at that sort of thing before—before my eyes went dicky."
Duncombe resumed his seat. He helped himself to another glass of wine.
"I presume," he said, "from the fact that you call yourself their nearest friend, that the young lady is not engaged?"
"No," Andrew answered slowly. "She is not engaged."
Something a little different in his voice caught his friend's attention. Duncombe eyed him keenly. He was conscious of a sense of apprehension. He leaned over the table.
"Do you mean, Andrew——?" he asked hoarsely. "Do you mean——?"
"Yes, I mean that," his friend answered quietly. "Nice sort of old fool, am I not? I'm twelve years older than she is, I'm only moderately well off and less than moderately good-looking. But after all I'm only human, and I've seen her grow up from a fresh, charming child into one of God's wonderful women. Even a gardener, you know, George, loves the roses he has planted and watched over. I've taught her a little and helped her a little, and I've watched her cross the borderland."
"Does she know?"