In spite of the smile he had given Kathleen a while ago, there was this morning a cloud on Allan's brow, a weight of care on his heart. He was worried and anxious, he wanted to do what was right, he wanted to act justly and honourably, and he knew that he was afraid—afraid for himself, afraid of a man's weakness, afraid of temptation that he would willingly flee if he could.
Long ago he had promised to be open and honest with Kathleen, had promised to tell her if that which had been so unreal, so intangible, should by any chance become real, and it had and yet he hesitated to tell her. It had been so easy to promise then, so difficult to perform. But he wanted advice, he wanted help and to whom could he turn if not to her?
There was his father.
He looked down at the kindly old face. But would his father understand? He doubted it. What patience would Sir Josiah, man of affairs, business man and materialist, have with dreams and visions and such-like rubbish? Yet Allan had a boyish, and because it was boyish, an honest longing to take someone into his confidence, to unburden his mind, to ask advice, to share his thoughts with some other and if not Kathleen, who better, who more natural than his father?
And so he made up his mind to speak, but hesitated. Twice he commenced, twice he branched off lamely into something else.
"What's the matter, Allan lad?" Sir Josiah asked.
"Matter, father?"
"Aye, matter, my son! I know you better than you think I do perhaps. You've got something worrying you and that's a fact. Now what is it? Is it Gowerhurst, has his lordship been saying anything or—or wanting anything, hey?"
"Lord Gowerhurst has——"
"Allan, look here," Josiah took his son's arm and pressed it closely. "I know his lordship, he's a gentleman, a man of position, a man of rank and title and like that—but he's hard up and when a man's pushed, well I suppose he ain't too particular, can't afford to be; it just crossed my mind that his lordship might—I say might have asked you, Allan, to lend him a helping hand."