"I never had any hope," he thought to himself, as he walked along the soddened road between the gates of Maudesley and the old town that lay before him. "I never really hoped that Laura Dunbar would be my wife."
John Lovell's house was one of the best in the town of Shorncliffe. It was a queer old house, with a sloping roof, and gable-ends of solid oak, adorned here and there by grim devices, carved by a skilful hand. It was a large house; but low and straggling; and unpretending in its exterior. The red light of a fire was shining in a wainscoted chamber, half sitting-room, half library. The crimson curtains were not yet drawn across the diamond-paned window. Arthur Lovell looked into the room as he passed, and saw his father sitting by the fire, with a newspaper at his feet.
There was no need to bolt doors against thieves and vagabonds in such a quiet town as Shorncliffe. Arthur Lovell turned the handle of the street door and went in. The door of his father's sitting-room was ajar, and the lawyer heard his son's step in the hall.
"Is that you, Arthur?" he asked.
"Yes, father," the young man answered, going into the room.
"I want to speak to you very particularly. I suppose this wedding at Maudesley Abbey has put all serious business out of your head."
"What serious business, father?"
"Have you forgotten Lord Herriston's offer?"
"The offer of the appointment in India? Oh, no, father, I have not forgotten, only——"
"Only what?"