Sir Francis, as I afterwards learned, did not insist upon the matter, but the very next day, as I was in the peach-house, I heard the door open, and I felt anything but comfortable as I saw Courtenay enter the place and come slowly up to me.
I was prepared for anything, but I had no cause for expecting war. He had come in peace.
“We’re going away directly after lunch,” he said in a low, surly tone, as if he resented what he was saying. “I’ll—, I’ll—there! I’ll try—to be different when I come back again.”
He turned and went hurriedly out of the place, and he had not been gone long when the door at the other end clicked, and I found, as soon as he who entered had come round into sight, that it was Philip.
He came up to me in a quick, impetuous way, as if eager to get his task over, and as our eyes met I could see that he had evidently been suffering a good deal.
“I’m going away this afternoon,” he said quickly. “I wish I hadn’t said and done all I have. I beg—”
He could not finish, but burst into a passionate fit of sobbing, and turned away his face.
“Good-bye!” I said. “I shall not think about it any more.”
“Then we’ll shake hands,” he cried—“some day—next time we meet.”
We did shake hands next time we met, but when Philip Dalton said those words he did not know it would be seven years first. But so it was.