“I am not at liberty to explain what it means,” was the answer, spoken with a certain stern gravity, not lost upon Monica. She had never seen her companion look like this before. The strength and resolution of his face compelled a sort of involuntary respect, yet she revolted against hearing the friend and playmate of her childhood tacitly condemned by this stranger. “I do not like innuendoes, Mr. Trevlyn,” she said. “If you have anything to say against a man I think it is better spoken out.” “I have nothing at all to say upon the subject of Sir Conrad Fitzgerald,” he answered, quietly. “Ungenerous! unmanly!” was Monica’s mental comment. “I cannot bear hearing a character _hinted_ away. I loved Conrad once, and he loved me. I do not believe he has done anything for which he should be condemned.” Randolph thought little of the few chance words respecting Sir Conrad Fitzgerald at the time when they were spoken; but he was destined to think a good deal about that individual before many days had passed. Finding his way to Arthur’s room towards dusk one day, as he often did, he was surprised to find quite a little group around the glowing fire. Monica and the dogs were objects sufficiently familiar to him by this time, but who was that graceful, fair-haired youth who sat beside the girl, his face turned towards her and away from Randolph, whilst he made some gay, laughing rejoinder to her in a very sweet, musical voice? Randolph recognised that laugh and that voice with another start of dismay. His face set itself in very stern lines, and he would have withdrawn in silence had he been able to do so unobserved; but Arthur saw him as he moved to go, and cried gladly: “Oh, here is Randolph—that is right. Our old friend and our new one must be introduced. Sir Conrad Fitzgerald—Mr. Randolph Trevlyn.” Randolph’s eyes were fixed full upon the face of the younger man as he made the slightest possible inclination of the head. His hand had unconsciously clenched itself in a gesture that was a little significant. Monica’s eyes were fixed upon Conrad. Was it possible that he quailed and flinched a little beneath the steady gaze bent upon him? She did not think so, she was sure it could not be; no, he was only drawing himself up to return that cold salutation with one expressive of sovereign contempt. Not a word was exchanged between the two men. Randolph sat down beside Arthur, and began to talk to him. Conrad drew nearer to Monica, and entered into a low-toned conversation with her. His voice sounded tender and caressing, and ever and anon such words as these reached young Trevlyn’s ears: “Do you remember, Monica?”—“Ah, those sweet days of childhood!”—“You have not forgotten?”—“How often have I thought of it all.”