While Sir Patrick had been speaking, Geoffrey had been considering with himself. By dint of hard thinking he had found his way to a decisive question on his side. “Look here!” he said, dropping his heavy hand down on the table. “I want to bring you to book, Sir! Suppose my friend had another lady in his eye?” “Yes?” “As things are now--would you advise him to marry her?” “As things are now--certainly not!” Geoffrey got briskly on his legs, and closed the interview. “That will do,” he said, “for him and for me.” With those words he walked back, without ceremony, into the main thoroughfare of the room. “I don’t know who your friend is,” thought Sir Patrick, looking after him. “But if your interest in the question of his marriage is an honest and a harmless interest, I know no more of human nature than the babe unborn!” Immediately on leaving Sir Patrick, Geoffrey was encountered by one of the servants in search of him. “I beg your pardon, Sir,” began the man. “The groom from the Honorable Mr. Delamayn’s--” “Yes? The fellow who brought me a note from my brother this morning?” “He’s expected back, Sir--he’s afraid he mustn’t wait any longer.” “Come here, and I’ll give you the answer for him.” He led the way to the writing-table, and referred to Julius’s letter again. He ran his eye carelessly over it, until he reached the final lines: “Come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs. Glenarm.” For a while he paused, with his eye fixed on that sentence; and with the happiness of three people--of Anne, who had loved him; of Arnold, who had served him; of Blanche, guiltless of injuring him--resting on the decision that guided his movements for the next day. After what had passed that morning between Arnold and Blanche, if he remained at Lady Lundie’s, he had no alternative but to perform his promise to Anne. If he returned to his brother’s house, he had no alternative but to desert Anne, on the infamous pretext that she was Arnold’s wife. He suddenly tossed the letter away from him on the table, and snatched a sheet of note-paper out of the writing-case. “Here goes for Mrs. Glenarm!” he said to himself; and wrote back to his brother, in one line: “Dear Julius, Expect me to-morrow. G. D.” The impassible man-servant stood by while he wrote, looking at his magnificent breadth of chest, and thinking what a glorious “staying-power” was there for the last terrible mile of the coming race. “There you are!” he said, and handed his note to the man. “All right, Geoffrey?” asked a friendly voice behind him. He turned--and saw Arnold, anxious for news of the consultation with Sir Patrick. “Yes,” he said. “All right.”