Michael said nothing. Bernard wished he would speak, but as he gave no signs of breaking the silence, Mr Gresham began again.
“You remember,” he said, with as near an approach to awkwardness as was possible for him, “our conversation that evening some weeks ago?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, “I remember it.”
“I have heard nothing more,” said Bernard. “I have not come across those people again; the Worthings, I mean. And—well, I think I’ve made up my mind to risk it; to go through with it. Fate seems leading up to it somehow. I was by no means sure that she was here when I came down, though it did occur to me as possible that she might be with her sister, and—I have seen a great deal of her these last few days. I cannot associate her with any unladylike escapade of the kind that was hinted at I cannot believe that there is really any risk to run. There must have been some absurd mistake.”
“And,” said Michael, “you have no misgivings as—as to her reciprocating your—” He hesitated.
Bernard smiled.
“In ordinary cases that would hardly be a fair question,” he said, “but as I have given you my full confidence so far, I think I may allow that that part of it appears to be all right.”
Michael got up from his seat, and strolled across to the fireplace. There, leaning against the mantelpiece, he calmly surveyed his cousin. “Then,” he said, “I may almost congratulate you at once? You will doubtless allow me to do so formally as soon as possible?”
“Certainly,” Bernard replied. “You shall be the very first to hear of it.”
“And you intend to leave that piece of gossip at rest then?” said Michael, after a moment’s silence.