time!"

For a moment Verdayne was nonplussed. What could he reply? There was
only one love-story in his life, and that one would end only with his
own existence, but he could not tell that story to the Boy--yet!
Suddenly, however, an old, half-forgotten memory flashed across his
mind. Of course he had a love-story. He would tell the Boy the story of
Isabella Waring.

So, as they sat together over their coffee and cigarettes, Verdayne told
his young guest about the Curate's daughter, who had all unconsciously
wielded such an influence over the events of his past life. He told of
the girl's kindness to him when he had broken his collarbone; of her
assistance so freely offered to his mother; of her jolly, lively
spirits, her amiable disposition and general gay good-fellowship; and
then of the unlucky kiss that had aroused the suspicion and august
displeasure of Lady Henrietta, and had sent her erring son a wanderer
over the face of Europe--to forget!

He painted his sadness at leaving home--and Isabella--in pathetic
colors. Indeed, he became quite affecting when he pictured his parting
with Isabella, and when in repeating his parting words, he managed to
get just the right suspicion of a tremble into his voice, he really felt
quite proud of his ability as a story-teller.

The Boy was plainly touched.

"What foolishness to think that such a love as yours could be cured
merely by sending you abroad!" he said.