"My wife is still in the drawing-room. Will you not see her to-night?"
Philip shook his head.
"It is late," he said, "and I am dusty and unpresentable. Besides, there is really nothing to say. To-morrow it shall be as you all think best. I will see Mrs. Trevannion—and Daisy," here he flushed a little, but his host did not observe it, "if you like and if she wishes it. Heaven send I may have better news than I expect."
And with a warm pressure of his old friend's hand, Mr. Keir left him.
The two younger men met the next morning. There was no difficulty about it, for Lingard, knowing by instinct that the interview must take place, had determined to face it. So of the two he was the more prepared, the more forearmed.
The conversation was long—an hour, two hours passed before poor Philip could make up his mind to accept the ultimatum contained in the few hard words with which Arthur Lingard first greeted him.
"I know what you have come about. I knew you must come. You could not help yourself. But, Philip, it will save you pain—I don't mind for myself; nothing can matter now—if you will at once take my word for it that nothing you can say will do the least shadow of good. No, don't shake hands with me. I would rather you didn't."
And he put his right arm behind his back and stood there, leaning against the mantelpiece, facing his friend.
Philip looked up at him grimly.
"No," he said, "I've given my word to—to these poor dear people, and I'll stick to it. You've got to make up your mind to a cross-examination, Lingard."