The tone of these words appeared suddenly, for St. George, to suggest the unsuspected. He stared as if divining a bitterness. “Don’t you think I’ve been straight?” “You might have told me at the time perhaps.” “My dear fellow, when I say I couldn’t pierce futurity—!” “I mean afterwards.” The Master wondered. “After my wife’s death?” “When this idea came to you.” “Ah never, never! I wanted to save you, rare and precious as you are.” Poor Overt looked hard at him. “Are you marrying Miss Fancourt to save me?” “Not absolutely, but it adds to the pleasure. I shall be the making of you,” St. George smiled. “I was greatly struck, after our talk, with the brave devoted way you quitted the country, and still more perhaps with your force of character in remaining abroad. You’re very strong—you’re wonderfully strong.” Paul tried to sound his shining eyes; the strange thing was that he seemed sincere—not a mocking fiend. He turned away, and as he did so heard the Master say something about his giving them all the proof, being the joy of his old age. He faced him again, taking another look. “Do you mean to say you’ve stopped writing?” “My dear fellow, of course I have. It’s too late. Didn’t I tell you?” “I can’t believe it!” “Of course you can’t—with your own talent! No, no; for the rest of my life I shall only read _you_.” “Does she know that—Miss Fancourt?” “She will—she will.” Did he mean this, our young man wondered, as a covert intimation that the assistance he should derive from that young lady’s fortune, moderate as it was, would make the difference of putting it in his power to cease to work ungratefully an exhausted vein? Somehow, standing there in the ripeness of his successful manhood, he didn’t suggest that any of his veins were exhausted. “Don’t you remember the moral I offered myself to you that night as pointing?” St. George continued. “Consider at any rate the warning I am at present.”