"Ah, Robert, how are you? I was on my way to South Audley Street to find you."
"Come for a long stay?" demanded Robert, as he linked his arm within Oscar's.
"I came today and I return tomorrow," replied Oscar.
"You don't mean that, man. Visit London in the height of the season, and stay only a day! Such a calamity was never heard of."
"I cannot afford London in the season; my purse is not long enough."
"You shall stay with me. But what did you come for?"
"A small matter of business brought me," replied Oscar, "and I have to go down tomorrow—thank you all the same."
He did not say what the business was; he did not choose to say. Mrs. Dalrymple, still living at the Grange, had been tormented by doubts, touching her son, for some time past. Recently she had heard rumours that rendered her doubly uneasy, and she had begged of Oscar to come up and find out whether there was any, or how much, ground for them. If things were as bad as Mrs. Dalrymple feared, Oscar concluded that from Robert he should hear nothing. He meant to put a question or two to him, to make his observations silently, and, if necessary, to question Reuben. They were of totally opposite natures, these two young men; Oscar was all cool calculation, and the senior by half-a-dozen years; Robert all thoughtless impulse.
Oscar put the question to Robert in the course of the afternoon; but Robert simply waived the subject, laughing in Oscar's face the while. And from the observations Oscar made in South Audley Street, nothing could be gathered; the rooms were quiet.
They dined there in the evening, Reuben waiting on them. Robert urged various outdoor attractions on Oscar afterwards, but he urged them in vain: Oscar preferred to remain at home. So they sipped their wine, and talked. At eleven o'clock Oscar rose to leave.