'I will tell you who I am by another question. George Austin, what in thunder are you doing with my sister?'
'Your sister?' George jumped up and stared. 'Your sister? Are you—are you Athelstan come home again? Really and truly—Athelstan?'
'I am really and truly Athelstan. I have been back in England about a fortnight.'
'You are Athelstan?' George looked at him curiously. When the reputed black-sheep comes home again, it is generally in rags with a long story of fortune's persecutions. This man was not in the least ragged. On the contrary, he looked prosperous. What had he been doing? For, although Elsie continued passionate in her belief in her brother's innocence, everybody else believed that he had run away to escape consequences, and George among the number had accepted that belief.
'Your beard alters you greatly. I should not have known you. To be sure it is eight years since I saw you last, and I was only just beginning my articles when you—left us.' He was on the point of saying 'when you ran away.'
'There is a good deal to talk about. Will you come with me to my rooms? I am putting up in Half Moon Street.'
Athelstan hailed a passing hansom and they drove off.
'You have been a fortnight in London,' said George, 'and yet you have not been to see your own people.'
'I have been eight years away, and yet I have not written a single letter to my own people.'
George asked no more questions. Arrived at the lodging, they went in and sat down. Athelstan produced soda and whisky and cigars.