"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, "aren't you well? Come upstairs and have something."
"I am well, but I have something very serious to say to you, and----"
"Ida is not ill?" the other asked apprehensively, his first thoughts flying to the woman he loved. And the familiar name upon his lips struck to the other's heart.
"She is well, as far as I know. But it is of her that I have come to speak. This club seems full of members, will you come for a stroll in the Park? It is close at hand."
"Yes, yes!" Penlyn said, calling to the porter for his hat and stick. "But what can you have to say to me about her?"
Then, as they went down St. James' Street and past Marlborough House into the Park, there did come back suddenly to his memory some words he had once overheard about Cundall being in love with the woman who was now his affianced wife. Good God! he thought, suppose he had come to tell him that he held a prior promise from her, that she belonged to him! But no; that was absurd! He had seen her that very day, and, though he remembered that she had been particularly quiet and meditative, she had again acknowledged her love. There could be nothing this man might have to say about her that should be disagreeable for him to hear. Yet, still, the remembrance of that whisper about his love for her disquieted him.
"Now tell me, Mr. Cundall," he said, "what you have to say to me about my future wife."
They had passed through the railings into St. James' Park, and were in one of the walks. The summer sun was setting, and the loiterers and nursemaids were strolling about; but, nevertheless, in this walk it was comparatively quiet.
"I have come to tell you first," Cundall answered, "that, three nights ago, I asked Ida Raughton to be my wife."
"What!" the other exclaimed, "you asked my future----"