‘Everybody is going abroad, I think; but few people so far as we are. I don’t think I should care for the Continent—just the same old thing over and over; but India should be all fresh. You are going to India too, ain’t you? at least, that is what I heard.’
‘I am not sure,’ said Edward. ‘The truth is, we have had very bad news this morning. My father died at Calcutta——’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Roger, who had kind feelings. ‘I should not have stopped you had I known; I thought you both looked grave. I am very sorry. I hope you don’t mind——?’
‘Don’t mind my father’s death?’
‘Oh, I mean don’t mind my having stopped you. Perhaps it was rude; but I said to myself, “Here is someone I know.” Don’t let me detain you now. I am very sorry, but I wish you were coming to India,’ said Roger, putting out his big fist to shake hands. Oswald eluded the grip, but Edward took it cordially. He was not jealous of Roger, but divined in him an unfortunate love like his own.
‘Poor fellow!’ Edward said as they went on.
‘Poor fellow!—why poor fellow? he is very well off. He is the very sort of man to get on; he has no feelings, no sensitiveness, to keep him back.’
‘It is scarcely fair to decide on such slight acquaintance that he has no feelings; but he is going to India.’
‘Ned, you are a little bit of a fool, though you’re a clever fellow. Going to India is the very best thing a man can do. My mother has always made a fuss about it.’
‘And yourself——’