What with one thing and another, Arthur's senses seemed deserting him. Sir Archibald Adair had been well known to him by reputation: a proud old Scotch baronet, of a grand old lineage. And so this was Ellen's family! And he had been deeming her not fitting to mate with him, a Bohun!
"Can I see Sir William? Is he at home?"
"He is at home, sir. I think you can see him."
In his dining-room sat Sir William Adair when Arthur was shown in--some coffee on a stand by his side, a newspaper in his hand. He was a slight man of rather more than middle height, with an attractive countenance. The features were good, their expression noble and pleasing. It was impossible to associate such a face and bearing with anything like dishonour.
"I believe my name is not altogether strange to you, sir," said Arthur as the servant closed the door. "I hope you will pardon my intrusion--and especially that it should be at this late hour."
Sir William had risen to receive him. He could but mark the agitation with which the words were spoken. A moment's hesitation, and then he took Arthur's hand and clasped it within his own.
"If I wished to be distant with you I could not," he said warmly. "For, to me, you appear as your father come to life again. He and I were fast friends."
"And did you wish to be distant with me?" asked Arthur.
"I have felt cold towards you this many a year. More than that."
"But why, Sir William?"