Soon after she left her sister, Vane walked into the room which Chisholm
reserved for his own use. It was handsomely furnished, and the big,
light-oak writing-table and glass-fronted cabinets were examples of
artistic handicraft. The sight of them jarred on Vane, who had already
surmised that it was the women of the Chisholm family who were expected
to practise self-denial. Chisholm was sitting at the table with some
papers in front of him and a cigar in his hand, and Vane drew out a chair
and lighted his pipe before he addressed him.

"I've made up my mind to sail on Saturday, instead of next week," he
said abruptly.

"You have decided rather suddenly, haven't you?" Chisholm suggested.

Vane knew that what his host wished to know was the cause of the
decision, and he meant to come to the point. He was troubled by no
consideration for the man.

"The last news I had indicated that I was wanted," he replied. "After
all, there is only one reason why I have abused Mrs. Chisholm's
hospitality so long."

"Well?"

"You will remember what I asked you some time ago. I had better say that
I retire from the position--abandon the idea."

Chisholm started and his florid face grew redder, while Vane, in place of
embarrassment, was conscious of a somewhat grim amusement. It seemed
curious that a man of Chisholm's stamp should have any pride.