"All right," cried Val, cheerily, "it's never too late to mend. Keep straight now, and we can all forgive and forget the past. I suppose you will be for leaving us shortly now?"
"Immediately. This is Tuesday—I shall depart in Thursday's boat."
"Will you," said Val, lighting a cigar; "that soon? What are you going to do with Rosebush Cottage?"
"The cottage! Oh, I shall leave it as it is—that is, shut it up. In time—a year or two, perhaps—I may return and sell it, if any one will purchase."
"Don't wait a year or two. Sell it now."
"Who wants it?"
"I do," said Val, with one of his nods.
"You! What do you want of the place, may I ask."
"Well, now, I don't see any just cause or impediment to my possessing a house any more than the rest of mankind, that everybody should be so surprised. I want the house to live in, of course—what else?"
Paul Wyndham looked at him and smiled. The great trouble of his life had changed him to a grave, sad man; but being only human, he could still smile.