“Only yesterday. His mother and I were surprised also. We hadn't expected him so soon. He's looking very fit, don't you think?”
“Very.” I had not noticed that young Bayliss was looking either more or less fit than usual, but I answered as I did because the old gentleman seemed so very anxious that I should. He was evidently gratified. “Yes,” he said, “he's looking very fit indeed. I think his trip has benefited him hugely. And I think—Yes, I think he is beginning to forget his—that is to say, I believe he does not dwell upon the—the recent happenings as he did. I think he is forgetting; I really think he is.”
“Indeed,” said I. It struck me that, if Herbert Bayliss was forgetting, his memory must be remarkably short. I imagined that his father's wish was parent to the thought.
“He has—ah—scarcely mentioned our—our young friend's name since his return,” went on the doctor. “He did ask if you had heard—ah—by the way, Knowles, you haven't heard, have you?”
“No.”
“Dear me! dear me! That's very odd, now isn't it.”
He did not say he was sorry. If he had said it I should not have believed him. If ever anything was plain it was that the longer we remained without news of Frances Morley the better pleased Herbert Bayliss's parents would be.
“But I say, Knowles,” he added, “you and he must meet, you know. He doesn't hold any ill-feeling or—or resentment toward you. Really he doesn't. Herbert! Oh, I say, Herbert! Come here, will you.”
Young Bayliss turned. The doctor whispered in my ear.
“Perhaps it would be just as well not to refer to—to—You understand me, Knowles. Better let sleeping dogs lie, eh? Oh, Herbert, here is Knowles waiting to shake hands with you.”