umsily, but this time sincerely. "I
don't suppose it makes any difference to you that your father--well, I'd
better not talk about it. But you see--Elizabeth might marry anybody.
She might have married heaps of times since Merton died, if she hadn't
been such an icicle. She's got lots of money, and--well, I don't want to
be snobbish--but at home--we--our family--"

"I understand," said Anderson, perhaps a little impatiently--"you are
great people. I understood that all along."

Family pride cried out in Philip. "Then why the deuce--" But he said
aloud in some confusion, "I suppose that sounded disgusting"--then
floundering deeper--"but you see--well, I'm very fond of Elizabeth!"

Anderson rose and walked to the window which commanded a view of the
railway line.

"I see the car outside. I'll go and have a few words with Yerkes."

The boy let him go in silence--conscious on the one hand that he had
himself played a mean part in their conversation, and on the other that
Anderson, under this onset of sordid misfortune, was somehow more of a
hero in his eyes, and no doubt in other people's, than ever.

On his way downstairs Anderson ran into Delaine, who was ascending with
an armful of books and pamphlets.

"Oh, how do you do? Had only just heard you were here. May I have a word
with you?"

Anderson remounted the stairs in silence, and the two men paused, seeing
no one in sight, in the corridor beyond.

"I have just read the report of the inquest, and should like to offer
you my sincere sympathy and congratulations on your very straightforward
behaviour--" Anderson made a movement. Delaine went on hurriedly--

"I should like also to thank you for having kept my name out of it."

"There was no need to bring it in," said Anderson coldly.

"No of course not--of course not! I have also seen the news of your
appointment. I trust nothing will interfere with that."

Anderson turned towards the stairs again. He was conscious of a keen
antipathy--the antipathy of tired nerves--to the speaker's mere aspect,
his long hair, his too picturesque dress, the antique on his little
finger, the effeminate stammer in his voice.

"Are you going to-day? What train?" he said, in a careless voice as he
moved away.

Delaine drew back, made a curt reply, and the two men parted.

"Oh, he'll get over it; there will very likely be nothing to get over,"
Delaine reflected tartly, as he made his way to his room. "A new country
like this