Hugh Trethowen rose, listless and sad. The lightheartedness and careless gaiety which were his chief characteristics had given place to settled gloom and despair. “Thanks for your kind words, old fellow,” he exclaimed gravely. “I really ought not to trouble you with my miseries, so I’ll wish you farewell.”
The handsome girl, who had been silent and thoughtful, listening to the conversation, was unable to control her feelings, and burst into tears.
“Don’t cry, Dolly,” said he in a sorry attempt to comfort her. “Jack and yourself are old friends whom I much regret leaving, but don’t take it to heart in this way.”
Raising her hand reverently to his lips he kissed it, with a murmured adieu.
She did not reply, but, burying her face in the rich silk robe she wore, wept bitterly.
For a moment he stood contemplating her, then, turning to the artist, he said:
“Good-bye, Jack.”
“Good-bye, Hugh,” replied Egerton, wringing his hand earnestly. “Remember, whatever happens, I am always your friend—always.”
A few brief words of thanks, and Hugh Trethowen snatched up his hat and stick, and, drawing aside the heavy plush portière before the door, stumbled blind out.