He was turning the corner of the street, or Place, rather, as he asked himself this question, and before he had time to answer it he almost knocked against a young man who was hurrying in his direction.
“Pardon,” was on the lips of both, when both exchanged it for a more friendly greeting.
“Dexter!”—“Auriol!” they respectively exclaimed, and then the new-comer added—
“I was just going to the hotel to ask if you had come, or were coming. Arthur Morison told me some days ago that you were expected. I met him accidentally.”
“They did not expect me till to-day, and I came yesterday, so there has not been time for them to tell you. You see them sometimes, do you not?”
“You mean, do I visit them? Scarcely. I used to go there sometimes before Mrs Morison got so very ill. She was always kindness and cordiality itself to me. You know I had got to know the second Miss Morison very well a year ago in England, when she was staying with some neighbours of ours.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Mr Auriol. But he spoke absently.
“And it is all that horrid family feud. When they—at least I don’t know why I should say ‘they;’ I believe it is only Lettice—found out my connections, the difference was most marked, though before then they had been quite friendly, and I had hoped to introduce them and my sister to each other. Those sorts of things are really too bad, carrying them down to the younger generation.”
Godfrey bent his head in acquiescence, but did not speak.
“Do you,” Philip went on again after a moment’s pause, and with some little embarrassment—“do you think her as pretty as you had been told?”