“Any one at all, you should say. I never realised the marrying Alys. I was sure she would not wish it, and that seemed to make it all safe; but I never, in the faintest degree, imagined my caring for any one in this way—a way which makes it simply impossible to think of ever marrying any one else.”
“You think so just now,” observed Mr Cheviott, cynically, “but—”
“No, it is no passing feeling—you misjudge me altogether, Laurence; you seem quite unable to understand me, and therefore there’s no more to be said.”
“I don’t see that—even supposing I am incapable of understanding your present frame of mind—though being in love, you must allow, is not such a very uncommon condition as you seem to think it; taking for granted, however, that I cannot understand you, still the practical side of the question has to be considered, and you have no one to consult but me. In two words, what do you mean to do?”
Arthur turned his face away for a moment; then he set his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands, staring gloomily into the fire.
At last, “Laurence,” he broke out, “I don’t know what to do. There, now you have it all; you may despise and sneer at me as you like, I can’t help it. I deserve it, and yet I don’t deserve it, but that’s the long and the short of it. I do not, in the very least, know what to do, or what is right to do.”
To his surprise, Mr Cheviott suddenly leaned forward, took his pipe out of his mouth, and held out his hand. Half mechanically Arthur took it, and Laurence grasped his cousin’s hand warmly.
“We shall understand each other now,” he said, heartily. “When it comes to wishing to do right now, whatever mistakes you have made before, we come upon firm ground. Shall I tell you, Arthur, what seems to me the only thing for you to do?”
“What?” said Arthur, listlessly.
“Go away—quite away, for two years at least, if not more.”