“I am afraid,” he said quietly, “that there is a hiatus in my life somewhere.  There are no voices which call to me any more, and my family records are so much dead parchment.”

Trouble passed into her glowing face and clouded her eyes.

“Ah!” she said, “I do not like to hear you talk so.  Do you know that when you do, you make me afraid that something I have always hoped for will never come to pass?”

“What is it?” he asked.

“I have always hoped,” she said, “that some day you would come once more to Tredowen.  I suppose I am rather a fanciful person.  This is a country of superstitions and fancies, you know; but sometimes when I have been alone in the picture gallery with all that long line of dark faces looking down upon me from the walls, I have felt like an interloper.  Always they seem to be waiting!  Tonight, after dinner, I will take you there.  I will try and show you what I mean.”

He shook his head.

“I shall never come back,” he said, “and there are no more of my name.”

She hesitated.  When at last she spoke, the color was coming and going in her cheeks.

“Sir Wingrave,” she said, “I am only an ignorant girl, and I have no right to talk to you like this.  Please be angry with me if you want to.  I deserve it.  I know all about—­that ten years!  Couldn’t you forget it, and come back?  None of the country people round here, your own people, believe anything evil about you.  You were struck, and you struck back again.  A man would do that.  You could be as lonely as you liked here, or you could have friends if you wished for them.  But this is the place where you ought to live.  You would be happier here, I believe, than in exile.  The love of it all would come back, you would never be lonely.  It is the same sea which sang to you when you were a child, and to your fathers before you.  It would bring you forgetfulness when you wanted it, or—­”

Wingrave interrupted her.  His tone was cold, but not unkind.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “it is very good of you to be so sympathetic, but I am afraid I am not at all the sort of person you imagine me to be.  What I was before those ten years—­well, I have forgotten.  What I am now, I unfortunately know.  I am a soured, malevolent being whose only pleasure lies in the dealing out to others some portion of the unhappiness which was dealt out to me.”

“I do not believe it,” she declared briskly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” he declared coolly.  “Listen!  More or less you interest me.  I will tell you something which I have never yet told to a single human being.  I need not go into particulars.  You will probably believe a broad statement.  My ten years’ imprisonment was more or less an injustice!”

“Sir Wingrave!”

He checked her.  There was not a tremor in his tone.  The gesture with which he had repelled her was stiff and emotionless.