"Pleased to know you, sir," said Quarle, with a face that belied his words. "New lodger?"
"I live—next door," said Gilbert, a little lamely. For the girl had run into the house, and the situation was an absurd one. The only fashion in which he could leave this man, whose appearance he did not like, was by an undignified exit over the wall; and he had no wish for that. He could have gone out into the little alley behind, but he knew that the door at the end of his own particular garden was always kept bolted. So he stood somewhat awkwardly looking at the newcomer, and wondering whether he had better say something about the moon, or the warmth of the night. The man relieved him of the difficulty by speaking first.
"My name is Simon Quarle," he said, coming a step or two nearer to the younger man, and lowering his voice. "You're not likely to have heard of me; very few people have, because I keep myself to myself. It's a habit of mine."
"And a very excellent habit too, I should imagine," said Gilbert with meaning.
"I could wish it was a more general habit," retorted Quarle, with a quick glance at the house. "Now, sir—I'm old enough to be your father—old enough, under happier circumstances, to be the father of that girl who has just left us. And the Lord knows she needs a father badly."
"I believe she has one already," said Gilbert coldly.
"She supports a drunken reprobate who has that title," retorted the man, with a snarl. "Perhaps, if he were worthy of the name, he might have something to say to a man who sneaks over a back wall at night to talk to his daughter."
Gilbert made a quick movement towards the man; Quarle did not flinch, nor did he take his eyes from the face of the younger man. Again the absurdity of his position was borne in upon Byfield; more than that, he seemed to see in this strange creature someone who had a greater right to say that he was the friend of Bessie—a friend of an older standing.
"You simply don't understand," said Gilbert. "From a younger man I shouldn't stand it—but——"
"Never mind my years," said the other. "I'll do you the justice to believe that yours has simply been the thoughtlessness of youth—the carelessness of a man to whom women are all alike——"