“I do not know who or what I have to thank for life and all that makes me, me. But I am glad to have been born, now, who have often wished that I had never been born. Even if I knew that I must pass away to-night, I should still be glad, since I have learned that there is something in me which cannot die. It came when that man kissed my hands, and it will endure for ever.”
Godfrey was late for dinner, very late, and what was worse, his father had waited for him.
“I suppose you forgot that I dined at seven, not at eight,” was his cold greeting, for Mr. Knight, a large eater like many teetotallers, was one of those people who make a fetish of punctuality at meals, and always grow cross when they are hungry.
Godfrey, whose mind had not been steadied by the events of the afternoon, became confused and replied that he was extremely sorry, but the fact was he had met Isobel and, in talking to her, had not noticed the time.
“Isobel!” exclaimed his father, whose voice was now icy. “What Isobel?”
“I never knew but one, Father.”
“Oh! I suppose you mean Miss Blake. I had no idea she was here; indeed, I thought she was still in Mexico. But doubtless you were better informed.”
“No, Father, I met her accidentally. She has returned to England.”
“That is obvious, Godfrey——”
“She has come down,” he continued in a hurry, “to get the house ready for Sir John, who arrives shortly.”