But the oddity in the present case was that he said nothing. I should, however, have forgotten all about it, but that after some time I began to observe that as often as I alluded to Clara--which was not often--he contrived to turn the remark aside, and always without saying a syllable about her. The conclusion I came to was that, while he shrunk from condemnation, he was at the same time unwilling to disturb the present serenity of my mind by defending her conduct. Early in the Spring, an unpleasant event occurred, of which I might have foreseen the possibility. One morning I was alone, working busily, when the door opened. ‘Why, Charley--back already!’ I exclaimed, going on to finish my sentence. Receiving no answer, I looked up from my paper, and started to my feet. Mr Osborne stood before me, scrutinizing me with severe grey eyes. I think he knew me from the first, but I was sufficiently altered to make it doubtful. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said coldly--‘I thought these were Charles Osborne’s chambers.’ And he turned to leave the room. ‘They _are_ his chambers, Mr Osborne,’ I replied, recovering myself with an effort, and looking him in the face. ‘My son had not informed me that he shared them with another.’ ‘We are very old friends, Mr Osborne.’ He made no answer, but stood regarding me fixedly. ‘You do not remember me, sir,’ I said. ‘I am Wilfrid Cumbermede.’ ‘I have cause to remember you.’ ‘Will you not sit down, sir? Charley will be home in less than an hour--I quite expect.’ Again he turned his back as if about to leave me. ‘If my presence is disagreeable to you,’ I said, annoyed at his rudeness, ‘I will go.’ ‘As you please,’ he answered. I left my papers, caught up my hat, and went out of the room and the house. I said _good morning_, but he made no return. Not until nearly eight o’clock did I re-enter. I had of course made up my mind that Charley and I must part. When I opened the door, I thought at first there was no one there. There were no lights, and the fire had burned low. ‘Is that you, Wilfrid?’ said Charley. He was lying on the sofa. ‘Yes, Charley,’ I returned. ‘Come in, old fellow. The avenger of blood is not behind me,’ he said, in a mocking tone, as he rose and came to meet me. ‘I’ve been having such a dose of damnation--all for your sake!’ ‘I’m very sorry, Charley. But I think we are both to blame. Your father ought to have been told. You see day after day went by, and--somehow--’ ‘Tut, tut! never mind. What _does_ it matter--except that it’s a disgrace to be dependent on such a man? I wish I had the courage to starve.’ ‘He’s your father, Charley. Nothing can alter that.’ ‘That’s the misery of it. And then to tell people God is their father! If he’s like mine, he’s done us a mighty favour in creating us! I can’t say I feel grateful for it. I must turn out to-morrow.’