In the meantime, Maurice Hinchford had entered the parlour, closed the door behind him, and advanced towards the figure at the table, sitting in the full light of the gas above his head. Maurice paused and looked at him. Sidney had changed; he was looking older; there was a thread or two of silver in the dark waving hair; and the eyes, which blindness had not dimmed, had that melancholy vagueness of expression, by which such eyes are always characterized. "Well, Sidney--I am here at last." "I am sorry that you have taken the trouble to call." "Indeed!--why?" "I think you and I are best apart. We know each other far too well, by this time." "Have patience with me, Sidney. I think not." He drew a chair nearer his cousin, and sat down. He had not offered to shake hands with Sidney; he felt that his cousin would have resented that attempt; that he was regarded as a man who had done a grievous wrong, and from whom no professions of friendship or cousinly regard would be received. He had come with a faint hope of doing good--in some way or other, he scarcely knew himself; of extenuating in some way--almost as indefinite to him--the past conduct which had placed him in so sinister a light. "Sidney," he said, "I wish that you had accepted that invitation to meet me which I made you. I could have explained much." "No explanation, Maurice, would have been satisfactory to me at that time." "Will it be now, then?" he asked, eagerly catching at the words which implied possibly more than his cousin had wished to convey. "I would prefer dismissing the subject altogether," Sid replied. "If you will tell me candidly and honestly that you are sorry for the past, I will be glad to hear it--and believe it." "You bear me no malice, then?" "No--I have outlived it." "Then you will----" "I will do nothing, but remain with those good friends who have taken pity on my helplessness," he said, sternly. "Sidney, pray understand me. I don't wish you to think me a wholly bad man--God knows I am not that--I have never been that. I have had bad friends, evil counsellors, if you will--mine was never a resolute nature, but one easily led away from the first. I was an only son, spoiled by an indulgent father, spoiled by the money which was lavished on me, spoiled by the crowd which the spending of that money brought about me--nothing more." "That is bad enough," said Sid. "I own that. I own that I was flattered to my moral ruin, Sidney--that they, who called themselves my friends, cheered on that downfall, and made it easy to me--scoffing at all worlds purer than their own. I was young, vain, impressionable, and far from high-principled when I first met Harriet Wesden at Brighton." "I would rather not hear the story," said Sidney, uneasily. Maurice paid no heed to the remark, but went on hastily; and Sidney, suppressing his intention to arrest the narrative, sat still and listened to its weaknesses, its mystery, and yet its truth.