“I reiterate, sir, there is not a shadow of foundation for such a charge. Once in my life I have met Miss Wilton alone, but the rencontre was accidental and unexpected. I have now only to say that, undesirous as I am to recur to the past, I am compelled to call your attention to your knowledge of the circumstances which have drawn us together, and I ask you to remember any act of mine that has given you reason to doubt that I have acted, or should act, in any way unworthily or dishonourably.” He ceased, and a silence of almost a minute ensued. Mr. Wilton did recur to the past; he remembered the offer of service made by the generous youth in the hour of his frightful distress. He remembered that mainly to his gallantry he was indebted for not only the life of his daughter, but for the preservation of the important document which had restored him to his present position. But he remembered, too, the vow he had made to the friend of his boyhood, and it decided him how to act. He looked upon Vivian’s handsome face, flushed with excitement, and felt that it offered a fair excuse for Flora’s unwished-for predilection. “It will soon wear off,” he mentally exclaimed, “when she no longer meets with or sees him.” “Mr. Vivian,” he said, addressing him with an assumed calm loftiness, “I am content to believe that you may have conceived an attachment for my daughter, and that you have not acted upon that impression to secretly endeavour to secure her affection in return. Let all that has been said upon that point be at once, and for ever, buried. It, however, becomes a grave duty on my part to counsel you to eradicate that passion, because it can never be recompensed as you may hope. My daughter Flora is another’s. She was promised to that individual when in infancy, even under a vow to ratify it. I cannot recall it. I would not if I could. She never can be yours. Now, Mr. Vivian, I am not unmindful of your past services; I appreciate them warmly, and am most unlikely to forget them by any breach of the laws of hospitality, but you must see this can no longer be a place for you to visit. I must, therefore, take my farewell of you. I shall be happy to hear of your future welfare and of your fame, for I have always entertained an opinion that a high destiny awaits you. At any time that I can be of service”---- Hal made an impatient, indignant gesture. Mr. Wilton bowed. “I understand the feeling,” he said, “and I honour it. However, I desire not to part in anger with you; be this the proof;” he tendered his hand to Hal, who coldly received it. “But,” concluded Mr. Wilton, impressively, “I desire that we may part at your earliest convenience. With this I terminate this most unpleasant interview, and would crave to be left alone with my son.” Hal bowed stiffly, and proceeded to retire. Colonel Mires rose to depart also. Mark Wilton stepped before him.