Tredennis did as he bade him,—went to the other side of the room and began his measured march.
"We talked of Bertha in this very room years ago," he began. "It seems to be our lot to talk of Bertha. I am going to speak of her again."
Tredennis continued his measured tramp without speaking.
The professor rested his forehead upon his hand and sat so, looking downward. He went on in a quiet voice, and with a quiet, absorbed manner,—the manner of a man who, having the habit of close and careful study, was giving his whole attention simply and carefully to his subject.
"I shall have to go back to that night and repeat something I said then," he went on. "It was that her only hope for happiness would lie in her marriage with a man she loved deeply."
"I remember it," Tredennis answered.
"And I added that the chances were that, instead, she would marry the man who loved her."
"I remember that too."
The professor sighed heavily and wearily.
"The chances were too many," he said. "She married the man who loved her."