The others in the party left them to themselves. They had heard Huntington's preliminary remark, and understood that they had no part in the conversation.
"He is a pathetic figure," Huntington continued, "and he has won a sympathy from me which I never remember to have given to any one before. Think of twenty years of solitude! By Jove! he is the Modern Edmond Dantes!"
"I've known him since he was a boy," Marian said as Huntington paused for a moment. "If you are to understand the situation, perhaps I ought to tell you more. For a time, we were engaged, but these relations were broken off soon after his graduation. In fact I feel that I am to a certain extent responsible for his present condition, for he left America as soon as he heard of my engagement to Mr. Thatcher."
Huntington looked up quickly. "That gives Hamlen and me another bond of sympathy," he said quietly.
"What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.
"That same announcement produced disastrous effects upon my life as well."
"Why, you never saw me half a dozen times—"
"Once was enough," he replied seriously.
"Your imagination is as highly developed as your gallantry, Mr. Huntington," Marian laughed; "but we mustn't let ourselves become diverted.—Philip Hamlen was always sensitive and moody, but until I discovered him down here I had no idea these characteristics could become so exaggerated."
"He believes himself always to have been misunderstood," Huntington added. "To-day he felt that we met on common ground, and the gratitude in his eyes still haunts me."