"Good morning," he said with a bow. His expression had changed from the
sneer it had worn as he stood in the shadow covertly watching Archdale's
face. "Friends, is it not?" he added, and he smiled and held out his
hand tentatively. His host hesitated in the least, then took it. He had
been obliged to remind himself first that instinct was not an autocrat
of one's manners. Edmonson perceived the hesitation, slight as it was,
and the shadow in his heart sprang up and darkened his face for a
moment. Then he gave a short laugh, and turned toward the sunshine.
"That's right," he said; "let us part on good terms; it's luck, not I,
that you find against you."

"It was about this very thing that I was waiting here to speak to you
this morning," returned Stephen. "I was going to beg you to remain until
we can look into things a little; you, and my father, and I, you
understand? It can be done more conveniently here than anywhere
else,--and I trust I need not assure you that you are welcome. Of
course, I don't pretend to like the turn of affairs."

"Not necessary," interposed the other, the covert impertinence under his
frank smile making Archdale flush, and return haughtily:

"I was merely going to say that we must accept with the best grace
possible the consequences of things that happened so long before our
day."

"This philosophy is delightful on your lips. As for myself, I shall not
find that acceptance of the situation makes any demand for philosophical
endurance."