She was right—right, that is to say, so far as a large nature can ever fairly judge a small one. Careless or indifferent to his cousin it was not in Bernard Gresham to be, nor forgetful of the kindness shown him throughout his youth by Michael’s parents. And Evelyn’s belief that the struggles the latter had gone through were far more due to his own determined independence than to Bernard’s selfishness or neglect, hit the mark pretty closely.
The very evening of the day on which the sisters had had this talk about the Greshams, a tête-à-tête, in which they themselves—Miss Raynsworth more especially—were the principal subject of discussion, took place in Michael Gresham’s rooms.
He had dined and was preparing for an evening’s study, for he was working very hard just then at the higher branches of technical knowledge connected with his profession, when the sound of a hansom stopping at his door made him glance out of the window with a touch of curiosity. For the street was a quiet one, and the neighbourhood was not fashionable and callers on himself were rare.
But that this caller was one of such, there could be no doubt, for standing on the pavement as he paid the cab, Michael recognised the familiar figure of his cousin Bernard.
He stepped back from the window with a murmur of impatience. Bernard’s visits, though infrequent, were not flying ones, and Michael had mapped out his evening’s work. There was no use in grumbling, however, and he met the new-comer pleasantly, as the door opened and the small boy who acted as page on such occasions announced Mr Gresham.
“Lucky to find you in, Mike,” was Bernard’s first greeting. “I would have telegraphed to say I was coming, but I only made up my mind to try to see you half an hour ago, so I thought I would just chance it.”
“I am not often out in the evening,” said Michael. “I don’t go in for dinner-parties and that sort of thing, as you know.”
“I have missed you sometimes, however,” said his cousin. “Last year I looked you up two or three times, don’t you remember? without ever finding you in.”
“Last year I stayed later at the office. I very often didn’t come home to dinner,” said Michael, quietly. “This year it is different. I have work that I can do better at home.”
Bernard glanced round the room as his cousin ceased speaking. Michael’s “home” was a somewhat dreary one, and somehow, though he had honestly meant to do his best for the man who had been all but a brother to him in bygone days, Bernard Gresham never realised Michael’s uphill life and struggles without a twinge of something like self-reproach.