“And you have come to the conclusion that you are on the side of heaven? You are in a perilous way.”
“Your logic is a trifle shaky, friend. Besides, you have no right to assume that I am on the side of heaven.”
“There is a suggestion of indignation in your voice that gives me hope that you are not in so evil a case as I may have suspected. Do you think that another afternoon in the boat—”
“Would make me on the side of the Lord Chancellor? I doubt it. But that is not equivalent to saying that I doubt the excellence of your advice.”
“Yesterday afternoon I flattered myself that I had given you such advice as commended itself to you, and yet now you tell me that love is born, not made. The man who believes that is past being advised. It is, I say, the end of wisdom. What has happened since yesterday afternoon?”
“Nothing has happened to shake my confidence in the soundness of your advice,” said Harold, but not until a pause had occurred—a pause of sufficient duration to tell his observant friend that something had happened.
“If nothing has happened—Miss Craven is going to sketch the Round Tower at noon,” said Edmund—the Round Tower was some distance through the romantic Pass of Lamdhu.
“The Round Tower will not suffer; Miss Craven is not one of the landscape libellers,” remarked Harold.
Just then Miss Innisfail hurried up with a face lined with anxiety.
Miss Innisfail was the sort of girl who always, says, “It is I.”