“And I hope—I shall see you there often,” said Max.
“Eh? what?” said Kenneth, flushing and frowning. “No, no, it’s well meant, Max, old chap, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go there again.”
There was another silence, and, to Kenneth’s great relief, Max rose and left the room without a word.
“Poor old chap!” said Kenneth; “I’ve offended him, I suppose. I did not mean to. It was very blundering and foolish of him, though, to propose such a thing.”
He sat gazing before him sternly.
“Poor old Dunroe!” he said sadly. “How I can see the dear old place again, with its rocks all golden-ruddy weed, its shimmering sea, and the distant blue mountains. Ah, what days those were! I should like to see the dear old place again. But no, no! I couldn’t go and stay there now.”
He leaped up, and strode once or twice up and down the room.
“Here, what a pretty host I am! I must fetch him down. I’ve hurt him, and he always was such a sensitive chap.”
He was half across the room when Max returned, with a large leather lock-up folio under his arm.
“Oh, you needn’t have fetched that down,” said Kenneth. “Plenty of writing materials here. But you are not going to write to-night?”