“I suppose I have got into the talking stage now,” said poor Edgar. “I have had a long spell of it, and felt everything that can be felt, I believe. It was on Sunday night I found it out--fancy, on Sunday night!--a hundred years ago. And I want you to stand by me to-day. I have telegraphed for Fazakerly. I have asked him to come to dinner; why, I don’t know, except that dinner is a solemnity which agrees with everything. It will be my table for the last time. Is it not odd that Arthur Arden should be here at such a moment? not by my doing, nor Clare’s, nor even his own--by Providence, I suppose. If Mr. Pimpernel’s horses had not run away, and if poor little Jeanie had not been in the carriage---- What strange, invisible threads things hang together by! Am I talking wildly still?” “No, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with a half sob. “No, my poor boy. Edgar, I think it would be a relief to be able to cry---- What shall you do? What shall you do? I think my heart will break.” “I shall do very well,” said Edgar, cheerily. “Remember, I have not been brought up a fine gentleman. I shall be of as much use in the world probably as Arthur Arden, after all. Ridiculous, is it not? but I feel as if he were my rival, as if I should like to win some victory over him. It galls me to think that perhaps Clare will marry him--a man no more worthy of her---- But, of course, the match would be suitable, as people call it, _now_.” “Say you don’t like it, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with sudden warmth. “Clare, you may be sure, if she ever neglected your wishes, will not neglect them now.” Edgar shook his head; a certain sadness came into the meditative smile which had been on his face. “I believe she loves him,” he said, and then was silent, feeling even in that moment that it was not for Clare’s good he should say more. No; it was not for him to lay any further burdens upon his sister. His sister! “I _must_ think of her as my sister,” he said aloud, defending himself, as it were, from some attack. “It is like my Christian name. I can’t give that up, and I can’t give her up--in idea, I mean; in reality, of course, I will.” “The man who would ask you to do so would be a brute,” cried Mr. Fielding. “No man will ask me to do so,” said Edgar. “I don’t fear that; but time, and distance, and life. But you are old--you will not forget me. You will stand by me, won’t you, to the last!” The good Rector was old, as Edgar said; he could not bear any more. He sat down on the roadside, and covered his face with his handkerchief. And the tears came to Edgar’s eyes. But the suffering was his own, not another’s; therefore they did not fall. Thus they separated, to meet again in the evening at the dinner, to which Edgar begged the Rector to ask Dr. Somers also. “It will be my last dinner,” he said, with a smile; and so went away--with something of his old look and manner restored to him--home.