‘Then I think I should go back and make him see me, and I should tell him that I did not want to harm him, but that justice must be done. I should say how it hurt me to have to fight anyone who had been good to me. I should say how grateful I still felt for his kindness; but I should be firm, and say at the same time, that if he _would_ fight for the wrong instead of yielding to the right, I should be obliged to become his enemy.’ ‘It might be a dangerous step for me to take,’ said Phil. ‘For he is very strong.’ ‘What course are you thinking of pursuing?’ ‘I cannot make up my mind. A sudden blow would be most effective.’ ‘If he has ever been a friend to you, and if you owe him gratitude,’ said Roma gravely, ‘you ought not to strike him unawares. You owe it to him to be frank, even though he may have been treacherous to you. Never do wrong because another does it. You do not mind my speaking out?’ ‘No, indeed. I thank you for it, Roma; and I will take your advice. I had almost pledged myself to it before; now my mind is made up. Whatever is done shall be done openly, and my friend shall have due warning before I strike a blow.’ ‘I am sure you will never regret your decision,’ said Roma warmly. That episode of the wishing-well made a deep impression upon Phil and his companion. The mutual confidences they had exchanged seemed to draw them more closely together, and the secret which was known only to them, and which was to be inviolably kept, was a link which strengthened the bond between them. ‘She is a noble woman and a sweet woman,’ Phil said to himself that night. ‘I will win her for my wife when I have my own again; and I think she will not shrink then at the idea of calling Ladywell her home. I can be paving the way with the father, though my lips are sealed at present, for I cannot give a false name and antecedents when I plead such a cause as that. With Roma, I cannot think my task will be a hard one. I am sure she is not indifferent to me. I think, too, she must know how I love her.’ It was not difficult to lead Michael Meredith to speak of his daughter. He was proud of her, and proud of any admiration bestowed upon her. He knew by the way in which his guest spoke and acted, that he had from the first been struck and impressed by Roma, and he was pleased that it was so. ‘She has been my stay and solace all through my declining years,’ said Meredith, in his studied, artificial way. ‘I wonder you have kept her with you so long,’ hazarded Phil. ‘Ah, yes, you may say that with reason; but we have lived for one another, and apart from the world. Few men have even seen my Roma.’ ‘Rather hard on the men,’ said Phil gallantly. Meredith smiled, well pleased. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘but I knew my own mind. My choice was made before.’ ‘What do you mean, Signor?’