forgotten what had passed between them. His next words, however, showed
he hadn't, and they produced, as an appeal to Paul's own memory, an
effect which would have been ludicrous if it hadn't been cruel. "Do you
recall the talk we had at my house that night, into which Miss Fancourt's
name entered? I've often thought of it since."

"Yes; no wonder you said what you did"--Paul was careful to meet his
eyes.

"In the light of the present occasion? Ah but there was no light then.
How could I have foreseen this hour?"

"Didn't you think it probable?"

"Upon my honour, no," said Henry St. George. "Certainly I owe you that
assurance. Think how my situation has changed."

"I see--I see," our young man murmured.

His companion went on as if, now that the subject had been broached, he
was, as a person of imagination and tact, quite ready to give every
satisfaction--being both by his genius and his method so able to enter
into everything another might feel. "But it's not only that; for
honestly, at my age, I never dreamed--a widower with big boys and with so
little else! It has turned out differently from anything one could have
dreamed, and I'm fortunate beyond all measure. She has been so free, and
yet she consents. Better than any one else perhaps--for I remember how
you liked her before you went away, and how she liked you--you can
intelligently congratulate me."