“I am not ill, Sir,” said Harry, colouring high, and then growing pale; “but there was another reason. I should like to speak to you for a few minutes, about myself, if you could spare the time.” “Certainly I can spare you the time,” said the Vice-Consul, readily; “but not now, you know. Come to me again as soon as the office is closed. Shall we talk your business over here, or in the house?” “Here, if you please,” said Harry. “Here be it, then. Do you know you excite my curiosity? you look so serious. But I hope it’s nothing disagreeable, nothing to interfere with our alliance?” said the Vice-Consul, good-humouredly. He thought he knew exactly what it was. No doubt the family had found him out, and Harry was about to be recalled to its bosom. This would give Mr. Bonamy himself a little regret, and he could understand that to leave a place where everybody had been kind to him would be a sort of trial to the young man; but at the same time it was far better for him that he should be reconciled to his family. So he went through his business with a little gentle interest, looking forward to the _éclaircissement_. It was like the third volume of a novel to the Vice-Consul, and even something more than that, more than the mere end of a story which had interested him--for it would also settle various questions in his mind, and prove if he had been right or not in the instantaneous opinion which he had formed about Harry’s concerns. He felt quite sure that he would prove to have been right. By the time Harry returned to him, after the work of the afternoon was done, he had made out within himself quite what the scene was to be. The young man would say: “My father is here;” or “My brother is here,” as might be; and a hale, hearty old country gentleman, or a young, ruddy, fresh-coloured youth, like Harry himself, would be brought in and presented to him, and he would give himself the gratification of saying, “This is precisely how I expected it would be; I have been looking for you this past year daily, though I had no notion who you were.” When Harry came back with the same face of serious excitement the Consul almost laughed. “Bring them in, bring them in,” he said, “I have nothing to say against you. You need not be afraid that I will give you a bad character.” Harry looked at him with that look of blank astonishment which so often turns into lofty superiority and disapproval of their seniors’ folly in youthful eyes. “Bring--whom in?” he said. “Your people, to be sure, my dear Oliver. Come, Oliver, I am not an old wife; you can’t conceal it from me.” “I know nothing about my people,” said Harry, hastily; “I have nothing more to say about them than I have already told you. Things are exactly as they were between them and me. What I have got to tell you is a very different sort of thing. But you will see by it, at least, Sir, that I have no wish to conceal anything from you.”