'Bah!' thought he; 'to-night Jerry and I shall be in France, and then——'
What then, he scarcely knew.
The current of his ideas changed, for times there were, and this became one of them, when he longed morbidly to go through all the luxury of grief and sentiment in taking that which he had never before taken, save by letter—a last farewell of her; to beg of her to let no hour of sorrow for him mar her peace, no regret for his loss of fortune, a loss that was no fault of his own; to think of him with no pain, but with a soft memory of their past love, or to forget him, though he never could, or should, forget her, but would ever treasure in his heart how dear she had been to him, etc., etc.; and in this mood he was indulging, when his valet laid before him a note, the envelope of which caused him to feel a kind of electric shock.
It bore the Collingwood crest.
With hands tremulous as those of an agitated girl, he tore it open, and found that it was from Sir Carnaby Collingwood—a brief invitation to dine with him at his club at eight to-morrow evening (if disengaged), 'that they might have a little talk over old times.'
'Old times,' he repeated; 'what does that phrase mean?'
He had read over the note for the fourth or fifth time when Jerry Vane arrived.
He, too, had a similar invitation, but in that there was nothing remarkable, as he had never ceased to be on terms of intimacy with Sir Carnaby.
'What can old Collingwood mean by this invitation to smoke the calumet of peace?' exclaimed Trevor Chute.
'Time will show.'