"Ay! Before then?"
There was a short silence. Then Arranmore, who had been gazing steadily into the fire, looked up. She fancied that his eyes were softer.
"Dear friend," he said, "of those days I have nothing to tell—even you. But there are more awful things even than moral degeneration. You do me justice when you impute that I never ate from the trough. But what I did, and where I lived, I do not think that I shall ever willingly tell any one."
A piece of burning wood fell upon the hearthstone. He stooped and picked it up, placed it carefully in its place, and busied himself for a moment or two with the little brass poker. Then he straightened himself.
"Catherine," he said, "I think if I were you that I would not marry Sybil to Molyneux. It struck me to-day that his eyeglass-chain was of last year's pattern, and I am not sure that he is sound on the subject of collars. You know how important these things are to a young man who has to make his own way in the world. Perhaps, I am not sure, but I think it is very likely I might be able to find a husband for her."
"You dear man," Lady Caroom murmured. "I should rely upon your taste and judgment so thoroughly."
There was a discreet knock at the door. A servant entered with a card.
Arranmore took it up, and retained it in his fingers.
"Tell Mr. Brooks," he said, "that I will be with him in a moment. If he has ridden over, ask him to take some refreshment."
"You have a visitor," Lady Caroom said, rising. "If you will excuse me
I will go and lie down until luncheon-time, and let my maid touch me up.
These sentimental conversations are so harrowing. I feel a perfect
wreck."