“I don’t see why it shouldn’t last,” he said. “Little Amy is like a little ghost herself; but how can it be otherwise in such an unnatural state of affairs--the mother gone, and all the responsibility put upon one--upon one who-- For what is Mrs. Lennox?” he cried, half angrily; “oh yes, a good, kind soul--but she has to be taken care of too--and all upon one--upon one who--” “You mean Miss Trevanion?” “I don’t mean--to bring in any names. Look here,” cried the young man, “you and I, Rivers--we are not worthy to name her name.” His voice was a little husky; his heart was in his mouth. He felt a sort of brotherly feeling even for this rival who might perhaps, being clever (he thought), be more successful than he, but who, in the meantime, had more in common with him than any other man, because he too loved Rosalind. Rivers did not make any response. Perhaps he was not young enough to have this feeling for any woman. A man may be very much in love--may be ready even to make any exertion, almost any sacrifice, to win the woman he loves, and yet be unable to echo such a sentiment. He could not allow that he was unworthy to name her name. Hamerton scarcely noticed his silence, and yet was a little relieved not to have any response. “I am a little upset myself,” he said, “because you know I’ve been mixed up with it all from the beginning, which makes one feel very differently from those that don’t know the story. I couldn’t help just letting out a little. I beg your pardon for taking up your time with what perhaps doesn’t interest you.” This stung the other man to the quick. “It interests me more, perhaps, than you could understand,” he cried. “But,” he added, after a pause, “it remains to be seen whether the family wish me to know--not certainly at second-hand.” Hamerton sprang to his feet in hot revulsion of feeling. “If you mean me by the second-hand,” he said; then paused, ashamed both of the good impulse and the less good which had made him thus betray himself. “I beg your pardon,” he added; “I’ve been travelling all day, and I suppose I’m tired and apt to talk nonsense. Good-night.” Jules and Adolphe were glad. They showed the young Englishman to his room with joy, making no doubt that the other would follow. But the other did not follow. He sat for a time silently, with his head on his hand. Then he rose, and walking to the other side of the great bouquet of laurels, paused in the profound shadow, where there stood, as he divined rather than saw, a human creature in mysterious anguish, anxiety, and pain. He made out with difficulty a tall shadow against the gloomy background of the close branches. “I do not know who you are,” he said; “I do not ask to know; but you are deeply interested in what that--that young fellow was saying?” The voice that replied to him was very low. “Oh, more than interested; it is like life and death to me. For God’s sake, tell me if you know anything more.”