"She's well—and she's very happy," said Gilbert grudgingly.
"Anything about her dear father?"
"Father also appears to be very well—though nothing is said about his particular happiness," replied the younger man, with a glance at the letter. "You will be interested also perhaps to learn that Aubrey finds the country somewhat dull . . . but perhaps you're not interested in Aubrey?"
"I am not," replied Quarle. "I don't know that I'm particularly interested in anyone except the girl." He got up, and moved across the room, with his hands clasped behind his back; stopped without looking round, and put a question. "How long, Mr. Byfield, does this precious fortune last?"
"How in the world should I know?" demanded Gilbert, more savagely than he intended. "You'd better ask Meggison; he knows all about it. And may I suggest, Mr. Quarle, that I'm busy, and would rather be alone?"
Simon Quarle turned slowly, and walked towards the door; stopped there, and looked over his shoulder back at Gilbert. "I'm sorry, Mr. Byfield," he said, in a tone that was singularly gentle—"I'm sorry that you find it necessary to remind me that I'm not wanted; I'm more sorry still that you shut me out, not only from your room but from your secrets. Good night to you!"
"Stop!" cried Gilbert quickly, as the hand of the other man was upon the door. "Come back, please; let there be no misunderstanding about this. I have not meant to offend you in any way; I did not mean to be abrupt. But you must not connect me in any way with this matter."
The other man came slowly back into the room, and stood for a moment or two with his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him, and the toe of one boot grinding slowly into the carpet. Without looking up he said at last—"I'm an older man than you are, Byfield—and I know what a beastly world we live in, from some points of view. Talk to me of Meggison or his worthless son, and I don't care a snap of the fingers; tell me about this girl, and the old blood in me fires up as it might have done if it had ever been ordained that I should have a child of my own. That's foolish, I know—but for once it happens to come straight from my heart. I have a love for her that I have for nothing else on God's earth; and I can't stand by now, and see her in all innocence rushing on to a place where the feet of a stronger woman might not tread. Do you or do you not understand for one moment what you're doing?"
"I think so," said Gilbert quietly.
"I don't think you do. As I understand it, you've cheated this girl—tried to draw her to you by a beggarly underhand payment of pounds shillings and pence. That's nothing to you, and you can keep it up for a long time; but where's it going to end? Who's going to tell her the truth—you or I?"