Allan hesitated. “I may as well tell you,” he said, after a moment. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of; I only wonder you haven’t noticed it before! There’s a woman in it, as usual—I’m in love.”
Midwinter laughed. “Has Miss Milroy been more charming to-night than ever?” he asked, gayly.
“Miss Milroy!” repeated Allan. “What are you thinking of! I’m not in love with Miss Milroy.”
“Who is it, then?”
“Who is it! What a question to ask! Who can it be but Miss Gwilt?”
There was a sudden silence. Allan sat listlessly, with his hands in his pockets, looking out through the open window at the falling rain. If he had turned toward his friend when he mentioned Miss Gwilt’s name he might possibly have been a little startled by the change he would have seen in Midwinter’s face.
“I suppose you don’t approve of it?” he said, after waiting a little.
There was no answer.
“It’s too late to make objections,” proceeded Allan. “I really mean it when I tell you I’m in love with her.”
“A fortnight since you were in love with Miss Milroy,” said the other, in quiet, measured tones.