'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
Believe it or not as you will, of practical, matter-of-fact Roland, these oft-quoted lines (but never too often) told their refrain in his brain as he paced the streets of Helstonleigh, just as they had done in exile.
He went round by Hazledon; and William Yorke came forward in the hall to meet him, with outstretched hand.
"I knew you would not leave without coming in."
"It's to see Constance, not you," answered Roland.
Constance was ready for him; the same sweet woman Roland in his earlier days had thought the perfection of all that was fair and excellent. He thought her so still. She had her children brought down, and took the baby in her arms. Roland made them brilliant offerings in prospective, in the shape of dolls and rocking-horses: and whispered to their mother his romance about Annabel. She wished him luck, laughing all the while.
"When William was in London this summer he thought Hamish was looking a little thin," said Constance. "Is he well?"
"Oh, he's well enough," answered Roland. But his face flushed a dusky red as he spoke, for the question recalled the strange idea that had flashed into his mind, unbidden, the past night; and Mr. Roland thought himself guilty for it, and resented it accordingly. "You never saw such a lovely little fairy as Nelly is."
But he had no time to stay. Roland went out on the run; and just fell into the arms of a certain Mr. Simms: one of the few individuals he had particularly hoped to avoid.