In his room at the Court that night, Gaston inquired of Jacques about Alice Wingfield, and was told that on the day of the accident she had left with her grandfather for the Continent. He was not sorry. For his own sake he could have wished an understanding between them. But now he was on the way to marriage, and it was as well that there should be no new situations. The girl could not wish the thing known. There would be left him, in this case, to befriend her should it ever be needed. He remembered the spring of pleasure he felt when he first saw other faces like his father’s--his grandfather’s, his grandmother’s. But this girl’s was so different to him; having the tragedy of the lawless, that unconscious suffering stamped by the mother upon the child. There was, however, nothing to be done. He must wait. Two days later Lady Dargan called to inquire after him. He was lying in his study with a book, and Lady Belward sent to ask him if he would care to see her and Lord Dargan’s nephew, Cluny Vosse. Lady Belward did not come; Sir William brought them. Lady Dargan came softly to him, smiled more with her eyes than her lips, and told him how sorry she had been to hear of his illness. Some months before Gaston had met Cluny Vosse, who at once was his admirer. Gaston liked the youth. He was fresh, high-minded, extravagant, idle; but he had no vices, and no particular vanity save for his personal appearance. His face was ever radiant with health, shining with satisfaction. People liked him, and did not discount it by saying that he had nothing in him. Gaston liked him most because he was so wholly himself, without guile, beautifully honest. Now Cluny sat down, tapped the crown of his hat, looked at him cheerily, and said: “Got in a cracker, didn’t he?” Gaston nodded, amused. “The fellows at Brooke’s had a talkee-talkee, and they’d twenty different stories. Of course it was rot. We were all cut up though and hoped you’d pull through. Of course there couldn’t be any doubt of that--you’ve been through too many, eh?” Cluny always assumed that Gaston had had numberless tragical adventures which, if told, must make Dumas turn in his grave with envy. Gaston smiled, and laid a hand upon the other’s knee. “I’m not shell-proof, Vosse, and it was rather a narrow squeak, I’m told. But I’m kept, you see, for a worse fate and a sadder.” “I say, Belward, you don’t mean that! Your eyes go so queer sometimes, that a chap doesn’t know what to think. You ought to live to a hundred. You’ll have to. You’ve got it all--” “Oh no, my boy, I haven’t got anything.” He waved his hand pleasantly towards his grandfather. “I’m on the knees of the gods merely.” Cluny turned on Sir William. “It isn’t any secret, is it, sir? He gets the lot, doesn’t he?” Sir William’s occasional smile came. “I fancy there’s some condition about the plate, the pictures, and the title; but I do not suppose that matters meanwhile.”