Hamlen bowed his head. He was not so careful now to conceal his emotions, and it was evident that old memories were stirred within him, as well.
"Could I have found a more beautiful exile?" he asked.
"How many years have you been here?" she demanded.
"I left New York the week following the announcement of your engagement to Mr. Thatcher. Perhaps you can figure it out better than I. Time has come to mean nothing to me here."
"That was in ninety-three," Marian said, reflecting,—"over twenty years ago! You have been here ever since?"
Hamlen hesitated before he answered. "I have been back to the States only once—when my father died. I have made short excursions to London, to Paris, to Berlin, to Vienna; but the world is all the same, and I was always glad to return here, to this retreat."
"Twenty years of solitude!" Marian repeated. "Don't tell me that it was because of—"
"I came here because I wanted to get away from every old association," Hamlen interrupted hastily. "I settled down here because I loved this beautiful island—and I love it still."
"But your friends, Philip—"
A tinge of bitterness crept into his voice. "Friends?" he repeated after her. "What friends did I ever have whom I could regret to leave behind?"