"When? Going abroad again?"
"To Sicily."
"Ha!—that means, I conjecture," said Denzil, searching his friend's face, "that a certain affair will come to nothing after all?"
"And what if you are right?" returned the other, slowly, averting his eyes.
"I sha'n't grieve. No, to tell you the truth, I shall not! So at last I may speak my real opinion. It wouldn't have done, Glazzard; it was a mistake, old fellow. I have never been able to understand it. You—a man of your standing—no, no, it was completely a mistake, believe me!"
Glazzard looked into the speaker's face, smiled again, and remarked calmly:
"That's unfortunate. I didn't say my engagement was at an end; and, in fact, I shall be married in a fortnight. We go to Sicily for the honeymoon."
A flush of embarrassment rose to Denzil's face. For a moment he could not command himself; then indignation possessed him.
"That's too bad!" he exclaimed. "You took advantage of me. You laid a trap. I'm damned if I feel able to apologize!"
Glazzard turned away, and it seemed as if he would walk on. But he faced about again abruptly, laughed, held out his hand.