The rich old man was propped up on pillows, and in this attitude, beneath the high, spare canopy of his bed, presented himself to Nick's picture-seeking vision as a figure in a clever composition or a "story." He had gathered strength, though this strength was not much in his voice; it was mainly in his brighter eyes and his air of being pleased with himself. He put out his hand and said, "I daresay you know why I sent for you"; on which Nick sank into the seat he had occupied the day before, replying that he had been delighted to come, whatever the reason. Mr. Carteret said nothing more about the division or the second reading; he only murmured that they were keeping the newspapers for him. "I'm rather behind—I'm rather behind," he went on; "but two or three quiet mornings will make it all right. You can go back to-night, you know—you can easily go back." This was the only thing not quite straight that Nick found in him—his making light of his young friend's flying to and fro. The young friend sat looking at him with a sense that was half compunction and half the idea of the rare beauty of his face, to which, strangely, the waste of illness now seemed to have restored something of its youth. Mr. Carteret was evidently conscious that this morning he shouldn't be able to go on long, so that he must be practical and concise. "I daresay you know—you've only to remember," he continued.
"I needn't tell you what a pleasure it is to me to see you—there can be no better reason than that," was what Nick could say.
"Hasn't the year come round—the year of that foolish arrangement?"
Nick thought a little, asking himself if it were really necessary to disturb his companion's earnest faith. Then the consciousness of the falsity of his own position surged over him again and he replied: "Do you mean the period for which Mrs. Dallow insisted on keeping me dangling? Oh that's over!" he almost gaily brought out.
"And are you married—has it come off?" the old man asked eagerly. "How long have I been ill?"
"We're uncomfortable, unreasonable people, not deserving of your interest. We're not married," Nick said.
"Then I haven't been ill so long?" his host quavered with vague relief.
"Not very long—but things are different," he went on.
The old man's eyes rested on his—he noted how much larger they appeared. "You mean the arrangements are made—the day's at hand?"
"There are no arrangements," Nick smiled. "But why should it trouble you?"