The two friends seemed cheerful enough as they smoked their cigars in the
summer dusk, the quiet of the flagged court below rarely broken by a
passing footfall. It was the pleasantest evening which Gilbert Fenton had
spent for a long time, in spite of the heavy burden on his mind, in spite
of the depressing view which Mr. Saltram took of his position.

"Dear old John," he said, as they shook hands at parting, "I cannot tell
you what a happiness it has been to me to see you again. We were never
separated so long before since the day when I ate my first dinner at
Balliol."

The other seemed touched by this expression of regard, but disinclined to
betray his emotion, after the manner of Englishmen on such occasions.

"My dear Gilbert, it ought to be very pleasant to me to hear that. But I
doubt if I am worthy of so much. As far as my own liking for you goes,
there is no inequality between us; but you are a better fellow than I am
by a long way, and are not likely to profit much in the long-run by your
friendship for a reprobate like me."

"That's all nonsense, John. That kind of vague self-accusation means
nothing. I have no doubt I shall live to see you a great man, and to be
proud enough of being able to claim you as the chosen friend of my youth.
Mr. Branston's death has cleared the way for you. The chances of a
distinguished future are within your grasp."

"The chances within my grasp! Yes. My dear Gilbert, I tell you there are
some men for whom everything in this world comes too late."

"What do you mean by that?"