The room was luxuriously furnished. The prevailing colour was a dark red, and on the walls were hung portraits of his favourite composers. Curiously enough, the furniture was upholstered in a soft shade of grey, the effect of which in the warm-tinted room was, to say the least, of it, somewhat odd. A revolving bookcase, filled with books--mostly of poems--stood near a Louis Quinze escritoire; but the glory of the room was a magnificent grand piano standing alone at one end of the apartment.
"I suppose you are surprised to see me, Webster?" said the young squire abruptly.
"Well, I must admit that I am. We could hardly be called the best of friends at any time, I think."
"Still, we have not been enemies, Webster. Because two men may happen to be rivals they need not have a bad opinion of each other."
"You are very good," Neil said, faintly.
"Don't be sarcastic; there is no need, I assure you."
The remark made Webster laugh.
"Why do you laugh?" asked the other, sharply.
"I was wondering whether I could make a friend of you, and the thought of our relative positions with Miss Cass made me scout the possibility. We can never be friends."
"Why not? I like you very well. I don't see why you should be so bitter to me."