What was the exact nature of the interest which good Lady May undoubtedly took in Richard Arden? Was it quite so motherly as years might warrant? At that time people laughed over it, and were curious to see the progress of the comedy. Here was light and gaiety--light within, lamps without; spirited talk in young anticipation of coming days of pleasure; and outside the roll of carriage-wheels making a humming bass to this merry treble. * * * * * Over the melancholy precincts of Mortlake the voiceless darkness of night descends with unmitigated gloom. The centre--the brain of this dark place--is the house: and in a large dim room, near the smouldering fire, sits the image that haunts rather than inhabits it. CHAPTER XV. FATHER AND SON. Sir Reginald Arden had fallen into a doze, as he sat by the fire with his _Revue des Deux Mondes_, slipping between his finger and thumb, on his knees. He was recalled by Crozier's voice, and looking up, he saw, standing near the door, as if in some slight hesitation, a figure not seen for two years before. For a moment Sir Reginald doubted his only half-awakened senses. Was that handsome oval face, with large, soft eyes, with such brilliant lips, and the dark-brown moustache, so fine, and silken, that had never known a razor, an unsubstantial portrait hung in the dim air, or his living son? There were perplexity and surprise in the old man's stare. "I should have been here before, Sir, but your letter did not reach me until an hour ago," said Richard Arden. "By heaven! Dick? And so you came! I believe I was asleep. Give me your hand. I hope, Dick, we may yet end this miserable quarrel happily. Father and son can have no real interests apart." Sir Reginald Arden extended his thin hand, and smiled invitingly but rather darkly on his son. Graceful and easy this young man was, and yet embarrassed, as he placed his hand within his father's. "You will take something, Dick, won't you?" "Nothing, Sir, thanks." Sir Reginald was stealthily reading his face. At last he began circuitously-- "I've a little bit of news to tell you about Alice. How long shall I allow you to guess what it is?" "I'm the worst guesser in the world--pray don't wait for me, Sir." "Well, I have in my desk there--would you mind putting it on the table here?--a letter from Wynderbroke. You know him?" "Yes, a little." "Well, Wynderbroke writes--the letter arrived only an hour ago--to ask my leave to marry your sister, if she will consent; and he says all he will do, which is very handsome--very generous indeed. Wait a moment. Yes, here it is. Read that." Richard Arden did read the letter, with open eyes and breathless interest. The old man's eyes were upon him as he did so. "Well, Richard, what do you think?" "There can be but one opinion about it. Nothing can be more handsome. Everything suitable. I only hope that Alice will not be foolish."