Hilton flushed angrily.
“Your reproaches are unjust,” he said. “You know that Miss Perowne never cared for me, and that I was too weak and vain not to see it earlier than I did. Harley, I will not quarrel, for I esteem you too well. We ought to be good friends.”
“And we are,” said the Resident. “Forgive me for what I have said!”
He held out his hand, which the other pressed warmly.
“I’m an outsider!” said Hilton, bitterly, in turn. “I’m going to set up for my friend’s friend. I shall be best man to Chumbley when he marries Miss Stuart; and so I shall to you, for I believe you will marry Helen Perowne after all.”
“Silence, man!” cried the Resident, harshly. “I have been sent for by Miss Stuart. Her friend is dying, I am sure. Perhaps it is best!”
“Dying!” cried Hilton.
“Yes! Are you surprised after what the doctor has said?”
“I am,” said Hilton; “for I had hopes after all. Let us make haste.”
The Resident glanced at him quickly, for Hilton’s words even then caused him a jealous pang; but there was nothing but honest commiseration there; and they walked on hastily to the doctor’s door.