Again a flash of suggestion struck his hearer.
"One person—a man," he repeated. "Arthur, is it some priest? Have they been converting or perverting you, my boy? Are you going over to Rome, fancying yourself called to be a Trappist, or a—those fellows at the Grande Chartreuse, you remember?"
For the second time during the interview, Arthur smiled, and his smile was a trifle less ghastly this time.
"No, again," he said. "You're quite on a wrong tack. I have not the slightest inclination that way. I—I wish I had. No, my adviser is no priest. But he's one of the best of men, all the same, and one of the wisest."
"You won't tell me who he is?"
"I cannot."
"And"—Philip was reluctant to try his last hope, and felt conscious that he would do it clumsily—"Arthur," he burst out, "you will see her—Daisy—once more? She has a right to it. You are putting enough upon her without refusing this one request of hers."
He stood up as he spoke. He himself had grown strangely pale, and seeing this, as he glanced at him, Lingard's own face became ashen.
He shook his head.
"Good God!" he said, "I think this might have been spared me. No, I will not see her again. The only thing I can do for her is to refuse this last request. Tell her so, Philip—tell her what I say. And now leave me. Don't shake hands with me. I don't wish it, and I daresay you don't. If—if we never meet again, you and I—and who knows?—if this is our goodbye, thank you, old fellow, thank you for all you have tried to do. Perhaps I know the cost of it to you better than you imagine. Good-bye, Phil!"