Guy Oscard."

"Did she tell you so?" asked Sir John, with a queer smile.

"Yes."

"And you believed her?"

"Of course--and you?"

Sir John smiled his courtliest smile.

"I always believe a lady," he answered, "before her face. Mr. Guy Oscard
gave it out in Africa that he was engaged to be married, and he even
declared that he was returning home to be married. Jack did the same in
every respect. Unfortunately there was only one fond heart waiting for
the couple of them at home. That is why I thought it expedient to give
the young people an opportunity of settling it between themselves."

The smile left his worn old face. He moved uneasily and walked to the
fireplace, where he stood with his unsteady hands moving idly, almost
nervously, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece. He committed the rare
discourtesy of almost turning his back upon a lady.

"I must ask you to believe," he said, looking anywhere but at her, "that
I did not forget you in the matter. I may seem to have acted with an
utter disregard for your feelings--"

He broke off suddenly, and, turning, he stood on the hearthrug with his
feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed.

"I drew on the reserve of an old friendship," he said. "You were kind
enough to say the other day that you were indebted to me to some extent.
You are indebted to me to a larger extent than you perhaps realise. You
owe me fifty years of happiness--fifty years of a life that might have
been happy had you decided differently when--when we were younger. I do
not blame you now--I never have blamed you. But the debt is there--you
know my life, you know almost every day of it--you cannot deny the debt.
I drew upon that."

And the white-haired woman raised her hand.

"Don't," she said gently, "please don't say any more. I know all that
your life has been, and why. You did quite right. What is a little
trouble to me, a little passing inconvenience, the tattle of a few idle
tongues, compared with what Jack's life is to you? I see now that I
ought to have opposed it strongly instead of letting it take its course.
You were right--you always have been right, John. There is a sort of
consolation in the thought. I like it. I like to think that you were
always right and that it was I who was wrong. It confirms my respect for
you. We shall get over this somehow."

"The young lady," suggested Sir John, "will get over it after the manner
of her kind. She will