But after it was over to our joint satisfaction, she had to return to the distressful main theme of our talk.  She harked back to Sir Anthony, touched on his splendid behaviour, recalled, with a little dismay, the hitherto unnoted fact that, after the ceremony he had held himself aloof from those that thronged round Boyce.  Then, without hint from me, she perceived the significance of the Fenimores’ retirement from Wellingsford.

“Leonard’s ignorance,” she said, “leaves him in. a frightful position.  More than ever he ought to know.”

“He ought, indeed, my dear,” said I.  “And I will tell him.  I ought to have done so before.”

I gave my undertaking.  I went to bed upbraiding myself for cowardice and resolved to go to Boyce the next day.  Not only Fate, but honour and decency forced me to the detested task.

Alas!  Next morning I was nailed to my bed by my abominable malady.  The attacks had become more frequent of late.  Cliffe administered restoratives and for the first time he lost his smile and looked worried.  You see until quite lately I had had a very tranquil life, deeply interested in other folks’ joys and sorrows, but moved by very few of my own.  And now there had swooped down on me this ravening pack of emotions which were tearing me to pieces.  I lay for a couple of days tortured by physical pain, humiliation and mental anguish.

On the evening of the second day, Marigold came into the bedroom with a puzzled look on his face.

“Colonel Boyce is here, sir.  I told him you were in bed and seeing nobody, but he says he wants to see you on something important.  I asked him whether it couldn’t wait till to-morrow, and he said that if I would give you a password, Vilboek’s Farm, you’d be sure to see him.”

“Quite right, Marigold,” said I.  “Show him in.”

Vilboek’s Farm!  Fate had driven him to me, instead of me to him.  I would see him though it killed me, and get the horrible business over for ever.

Marigold led him in and drew up a chair for him by the bedside.  After pulling on the lights and drawing the curtains, for the warm May evening was drawing to a close,

“Anything more, sir, for the present?” he asked.

“Could I have materials for a whisky and soda to hand?” said Boyce.

“Of course,” said I.

Marigold departed.  Boyce said: 

“If you’re too ill to stand me, send me away.  But if you can stand me, for God’s sake let me talk to you.”

“Talk as much as you like,” said I.  “This is only one of my stupid attacks which a man without legs has to put up with.”

“But Marigold—­”

“Marigold’s an old hen,” said I.

“Are you sure you’re well enough?  That’s the curse of not being able to see.  Tell me frankly.”

“I’m quite sure,” said I.

I have never been able to get over the curious embarrassment of talking to a man whose eyes I cannot see.  The black spectacles seemed to be like a wall behind which the man hid his thoughts.  I watched his lips.  Once or twice the odd little twitch had appeared at the corners.