out a word passing on either side. Arnold spoke first.

"You're out of humor, Geoffrey. What has upset you in this way? Have you
and Miss Silvester missed each other?"

Geoffrey was silent.

"Have you seen her since she left Windygates?"

No reply.

"Do you know where Miss Silvester is now?"

Still no reply. Still the same mutely-insolent defiance of look and
manner. Arnold's dark color began to deepen.

"Why don't you answer me?" he said.

"Because I have had enough of it."

"Enough of what?"

"Enough of being worried about Miss Silvester. Miss Silvester's my
business--not yours."

"Gently, Geoffrey! Don't forget that I have been mixed up in that
business--without seeking it myself."

"There's no fear of my forgetting. You have cast it in my teeth often
enough."

"Cast it in your teeth?"

"Yes! Am I never to hear the last of my obligation to you? The devil
take the obligation! I'm sick of the sound of it."

There was a spirit in Arnold--not easily brought to the surface,
through the overlying simplicity and good-humor of his ordinary
character--which, once roused, was a spirit not readily quelled.
Geoffrey had roused it at last.

"When you come to your senses," he said, "I'll remember old times--and
receive your apology. Till you _do_ come to your senses, go your way by
yourself. I have no more to say to you."

Geoffrey set his teeth, and came one step nearer. Arnold's eyes met his,
with a look which steadily and firmly challenged him--though he was
the stronger man of the two--to force the quarrel a step further, if he
dared. The one human virtue which Geoffrey respected and understood
was the virtue of courage. And there it was before him--the undeniable
courage of the weaker man. The callous scoundrel was touched on the
one tender place in his whole being. He turned, and went on his way in
silence.

Left by himself, Arnold's head dropped on his breast. The friend who had
saved his life--the one friend he possessed, who was associated with
his earliest and happiest remembrances of old days--had grossly insulted
him: and had left him deliberately, without the slightest expression of
regret. Arnold's affectionate nature--simple, loyal, clinging where
it once fastened--was wounded to the quick. Geoffrey's fast-retreating
figure, in the open view before him, became blurred and indistinct. He
put his hand over his eyes, and hid, with a boyish shame, the hot tears
that told of the heartache, and th