He got up as Douce reappeared. Yes, he would have known Danby again anywhere. His was the physique which time affects little. Ambrose, though the younger man, was suddenly conscious of a tendency to corpulency and a rolling gait. He surveyed this trim cut-and-dry Anglo-Indian with apparent indifference, while Danby fixed his gaze in return and yet seemed to watch the glitter of the ripples in the sun in the bay beyond. Ambrose was nervous, but preferred to feel amused rather than impressed. 'We'll have chairs if you don't care for the wall,' he said. 'I prefer the wall. One can swing one's legs, an immense luxury of energy to an idle man.' He did not think Danby would take to the wall, but he did. His surprise was, however, modified by his not throwing his legs over, but sitting sideways, balanced by one foot pressing the turf. Ambrose returned to his old position, reflecting upon him as much clipped in manner as quenched in expression. He said a few nothings, while Danby looked from the house to the churchyard and thought how the fuchsias had grown and how many more graves there were. Ambrose watched him from the shadow of his hat-brim. He detested palaver, and Danby could only be there to say something personal. He was not the man to make himself ridiculous by coming out from St. Helier's, after so many years, to talk of cows and cabbages, the pear crop, or even the last mail-boat disaster. But how in Heaven's name was he to lead up to Clothilde? He suspected that his knowledge of future complications was the greater, and it seemed hardly fair that Danby should have to finesse. Naturally he would resent his own tactics when unexpected disclosures should prove Ambrose's perception of them. 'I may be a clumsy fellow,' thought Ambrose, 'but here goes for honesty! I needn't look at him--in fact this glitter dazzles my eyes to that extent that shut them I must now and then unless I mean to go blind.' He stretched out his hand to a pile of books, newspapers, and reviews on the wall beside him and drew a letter from the pages of the _Quarterly_. Danby's attention was attracted, and he followed his movements as he opened it and smoothed it on his knee. 'This is from my cousin Anna,' he said, clearing his voice and controlling his fever of nervousness. 'She often writes to us, having a warm partiality for old friends. It's rarely though that she has much more than home news to give from Lafer'--he felt rather than saw Danby's surprise as this name fell on his ears--'it's an out-of-the-world sort of place, and she only has her sister's children to talk about. But this morning--yes, I've just received it, she tells me of Miss Marlowe's engagement to you. She does not say "to you," and apparently hasn't the slightest recollection of the name, but she calls you by name and mentions you as being in Jersey, in fact----'