The hand on his palm trembled slightly and her eyes faltered under his gaze.
“I—think it—is possible I shall live in Delisleville,” she whispered.
His heart bounded as if it would burst his side. He knew what she meant in an instant, though he had never suspected it before.
“Oh! Oh!” he groaned. “Oh, Delia! which—which of them is it? It’s De Courcy, I could swear. It’s De Courcy!”
“Yes,” she faltered, “it is De Courcy.”
He drew his hand away and covered his face with it.
“I knew it was De Courcy,” he cried. “He was always the kind of fellow to win. I suppose he deserves it. The Lord knows I hope he does, for your sake. Of course it’s De Courcy. Who else?”
He did not stay long after this, and when he went away he wrung her hand in his in a desperate farewell.
“This is another reason for my going now,” he said; “I couldn’t stay. This—is—good-bye, Delia.”
He went home and had a prolonged interview with his father. It was not an agreeable interview to recur to mentally in after time, but in the end Tom gained his point, and a portion of his future patrimony was handed over to him.