“Alice—Miss Wishart, may I come and see you? It is a pity such near neighbours should see so little of each other.”
His hesitation made him cloak a despairing request in the garb of a conventional farewell.
The girl had the sense to pierce the disguise. “You may come and see us, if you like, Mr. Haystoun. We shall be at home all next week.”
“I shall come very soon,” he cried, and he was whirled away from the light; with the girl’s face framed in the arch of the doorway making a picture for his memory.
When the others had gone to bed, Stocks and Mr. Wishart sat up over a last pipe by the smoking-room fire.
The younger man moved uneasily in his chair. He had something to say which had long lain on his mind, and he was uncertain of its reception.
“You have been for a long time my friend, Mr. Wishart,” he began. “You have done me a thousand kindnesses, and I only hope I have not proved myself unworthy of them.”
Mr. Wishart raised his eyebrows at the peculiar words. “Certainly you have not,” he said. “I regard you as the most promising by far of the younger men of my acquaintance, and any little services I may have rendered have been amply repaid me.”
The younger man bowed and looked into the fire.