“An insufficient reason for such curiosity about the place, I should think,” replied Mr. Jerningham, coldly. “But you are a poet, Mr. Thorburn, and are not bound by the laws of reason.” Helen interposed here, and began to question Eustace about his Parisian experiences. She had felt that Mr. Jerningham’s tone was unfriendly, and was eager to turn the current of the conversation. The two young people talked together during the rest of the drive, and Mr. Jerningham listened and looked on. He had fancied himself gaining ground rapidly during this northern tour; and now it seemed to him all at once as if he had gained no ground, as if he were no nearer to the one dear object of his desires. What delight these two seemed to find in their frivolous discourse! To listen and look on,--was that to be his lot for the rest of his weary days? “O God, am I an old man?” he asked himself, with passionate self-abasement. The consciousness that his days of hope and pride are over,--the wretched revelation that for him there are to be no more roses, no more spring-time, no more of the brightness and glory of life,--will come upon a man suddenly like this, in brief, bitter gusts, like the breath of an east wind blowing in the face of midsummer. M. de Bergerac had watched his old friend and his daughter with pleasure during this Scottish tour. It seemed to him also as if Harold Jerningham was gaining ground, and it pleased him that it should be so. To him the master of Greenlands appeared no ineligible suitor, for of the darker side of his friend’s life and character he knew nothing. The ten miles’ drive upon a very indifferent road, uphill and downhill, occupied more than two hours, and it was seven o’clock when the carriage entered the little town where the travellers were to dine. At the inn all was prepared for them. They dined in a room commanding a noble view of the sea, and having a half-glass door which opened on a rude kind of terrace-walk. Here M. de Bergerac and his secretary strolled after dinner, talking of Oriental manuscripts in the spring moonlight, while Harold Jerningham and Helen played chess, upon a little board which the travellers carried, in the room within. “And when we return to Greenlands, which we are to do in a week, shall I find you at your post?” asked M. de Bergerac, kindly. “A great deal of work remains to be done before my first two volumes will be ready for publication. Jerningham strongly recommends my publishing the first two volumes as soon as they are ready. We shall have plenty to do in giving them the final polish. Much that I have now in the form of notes must be interwoven with the text. The frivolous reader recoils from small type. You are not tired of your work, I hope?” On this Eustace spoke. He felt that the time had come, and that he dare not longer keep silence.