His unexpected phraseology made Anstice pause before he replied. There was a touch of pathos, an unlooked-for poetry about the words which seemed to intimate that whatever his attitude towards the world in general, Cheniston's regard for Iris Wayne was no light thing; and when he replied Anstice's voice had lost a little of its hostility.
"As to your dreams I can say nothing," he said quietly. "For mine—well, a man's dreams are surely his own."
"Certainly, when they interfere with no other man's visions." Bruce hesitated a moment. "But in this case—look here, Anstice, once before you shattered a dream of mine, broke it into a thousand fragments; and by so doing took something from my life which can never be replaced. I think you understand my meaning?"
White to the lips Anstice answered him:
"Yes. I do understand. And if ever a man regretted the breaking of a dream I have regretted it. But——"
"Wait." Cheniston interrupted him ruthlessly. "Hear me out. It is three years since that day in India when the woman I loved died by your hand. Oh"—Anstice had made an involuntary movement—"I am not here to heap blame upon you. I have since recognized that you could have done nothing else——"
"For that, at least, I thank you," said Anstice bitterly.
"But you can't deny you did me an ill turn on that fatal morning. And"—Cheniston threw away his cigarette impatiently—"are you prepared to make amends—now—or not?"
For a second Anstice's heart seemed to stop beating. Then it throbbed fiercely on again, for he knew he had guessed Bruce Cheniston's meaning.
"Make amends?" He spoke slowly to gain time. "Will you explain just what you mean?"