“_I_ shouldn’t have known how to set about marrying her,” replied Arnold. “And--being in Scotland--I should have applied to Sir Patrick (without mentioning names, of course), because he would be sure to know all about it.” “Suppose I don’t see my way quite so plainly as you think,” said Geoffrey. “Would you advise me--” “To consult Sir Patrick? Certainly! He has passed his life in the practice of the Scotch law. Didn’t you know that?” “No.” “Then take my advice--and consult him. You needn’t mention names. You can say it’s the case of a friend.” The idea was a new one and a good one. Geoffrey looked longingly toward the door. Eager to make Sir Patrick his innocent accomplice on the spot, he made a second attempt to leave the library; and made it for the second time in vain. Arnold had more unwelcome inquiries to make, and more advice to give unasked. “How have you arranged about meeting Miss Silvester?” he went on. “You can’t go to the hotel in the character of her husband. I have prevented that. Where else are you to meet her? She is all alone; she must be weary of waiting, poor thing. Can you manage matters so as to see her to-day?” After staring hard at Arnold while he was speaking, Geoffrey burst out laughing when he had done. A disinterested anxiety for the welfare of another person was one of those refinements of feeling which a muscular education had not fitted him to understand. “I say, old boy,” he burst out, “you seem to take an extraordinary interest in Miss Silvester! You haven’t fallen in love with her yourself--have you?” “Come! come!” said Arnold, seriously. “Neither she nor I deserve to be sneered at, in that way. I have made a sacrifice to your interests, Geoffrey--and so has she.” Geoffrey’s face became serious again. His secret was in Arnold’s hands; and his estimate of Arnold’s character was founded, unconsciously, on his experience of himself. “All right,” he said, by way of timely apology and concession. “I was only joking.” “As much joking as you please, when you have married her,” replied Arnold. “It seems serious enough, to my mind, till then.” He stopped--considered--and laid his hand very earnestly on Geoffrey’s arm. “Mind!” he resumed. “You are not to breathe a word to any living soul, of my having been near the inn!” “I’ve promised to hold my tongue, once already. What do you want more?” “I am anxious, Geoffrey. I was at Craig Fernie, remember, when Blanche came there! She has been telling me all that happened, poor darling, in the firm persuasion that I was miles off at the time. I swear I couldn’t look her in the face! What would she think of me, if she knew the truth? Pray be careful! pray be careful!” Geoffrey’s patience began to fail him. “We had all this out,” he said, “on the way here from the station. What’s the good of going over the ground again?” “You’re quite right,” said Arnold, good-humoredly. “The fact is--I’m out of sorts, this morning. My mind misgives me--I don’t know why.”