Gervase was surprised to see De Laprade entering his room, and though he bore him no ill will, he would have preferred that he should not meet him. He had not yet faced his bitter disappointment and resigned himself to the sudden fall of his house of cards. He had come home to realize what his rejection meant for him, for he had been so certain, so blindly certain, of Dorothy´s love, that she had seemed a part, and a great part, of his life. The cup of happiness had been dashed from his hand when it was already at his lips; he was still smarting and sore, and it would be idle for him to attempt to offer congratulations to his successful rival. He was not magnanimous enough for that. But he wished him well and wished that he would leave him in peace. He took De Laprade´s hand without ill-will but with no great show of cordiality. “I could not leave your city, Monsieur Orme,” said De Laprade, “without bidding you farewell. We have been friends, I think, and done one another some service in our time.” “Your departure is sudden; I had not heard----” “Only an hour ago I found that I must leave. We strolling players live at large, and shift our booth a hundred times a year.” “When do you return?” “I disappear for ever,” answered Victor with a laugh. “Your country suits me not; your speech is barbarous, your manners are strange, and your climate dries the marrow in my bones. I want sunshine and life and pleasure. Your blood runs slowly here.” “It has been running fast enough for nine weeks,” said Gervase, with a grim humour, though feeling in no mood for jesting. “Ay, you fight very prettily, and you not among the worst, but phlegmatically. I have heard the story of your journey, but I did not come to talk of that.” “I am glad of that at least. I have heard nothing else all day, and ´twas no great feat when all was said.” “Perhaps. Your people are proud and cold and lack sympathy. But I want sympathy.” “Vicomte de Laprade,” said Gervase, “I am in no mood for playing upon words. I tell you that I am but now bearing a great trial, the nature of which no man can know but myself, you, perhaps, least of all. I sincerely value your friendship; I have seen your goodness of heart, but it is best that you should shorten this interview. With all my heart I wish you all good fortune, though I shall not see it. I leave by the first ship for Holland.” “We shall see, my friend, we shall see, but I think not.” “How?” “I said but now you were phlegmatic. I was wrong--you are too impetuous. There are many things which you must put in order before you set out, and perhaps you will never take ship at all.” “I do not understand you, sir.”