Tredennis had never heard her call him by his first name before; and he felt, with a keenness which startled him, the soft naturalness with which it fell from her lips. Arbuthnot's voice itself had altered when he answered her. "It is nothing," he said, "but that I am not exactly in a presentable humor, and I want to go and conceal myself. It is the best thing I can do. Good-night." He held out his hand, touched hers lightly, and then turned away, and the door opened and closed after him, and Bertha came into the parlor, moving slowly, as if she felt tired. CHAPTER VIII. When Tredennis rose to take his leave, the professor rose also. "I will go with you," he said. "And if you will, you shall give me a few minutes of your time before going home. I have some new books to show you." They went out together; but, until they reached the other house and entered the library, very little was said. The catastrophe of the broken teacup, or something of greater moment, seemed to occupy the professor's thoughts. By the time they took their accustomed chairs he appeared to have forgotten the new books. His thoughtful face wore so sadly perplexed a look that he even seemed older than usual. Tredennis awaited his first words in silence. His quiet fondness for him had become a very warm and tender feeling during the past months. It had been his pleasure to try to be of use to him. He had studied his needs, and endeavored to supply them; he had managed to share hours with him which might otherwise have been lonely; he had brought to him the stir of the outside working world when he seemed to require its stimulant; he had placed his own vigor and endurance at his disposal without seeming to do so, and his efforts at making his rather lonely life a brighter and more attractive thing had not been in vain. It was to him the professor turned in his moments of fatigue and necessity, and it was to him he turned now. "I am going to do a curious thing," he said.--"I am going to do a curious thing; but I think it is the best thing and the simplest." "The simplest thing is always the best," said Tredennis, more because there was a pause than because he felt an answer was needed. "Yes, yes," said the professor, seriously. "I think so. And it is easier to be simple with you, my boy, than with another man. It is your way to be direct and serious. You always had the habit. It never was your way to trifle. It is rather the fashion to trifle nowadays, you know, but you,--I have always liked it in you that you were not a trifler." "No," answered Tredennis; "I have not trifled much. It may have been against me. Sometimes I have thought it was. I cannot count it among my merits, at any rate. I am a grim fellow by nature." "No," said the professor. "Not a grim fellow. A silent fellow, and rather unyielding with yourself, but"-- He stopped, and looked up at him with a simple affection which made the young man's heart beat as a woman's glance might have done.