And, too low for him to hear even the faintest breathing whisper of her voice—­“Good-night.  I love you with all my heart—­with all my heart—­in my own fashion.”

* * * * *

He had been asleep an hour, perhaps more, when something awakened him, and he found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, dawn already whitening his windows.

Somebody was knocking.  He swung out of bed, stepped into his bath-slippers, and, passing swiftly to the door, opened it.  Gerald stood there, fully dressed.

“I’m going to town on the early train,” began the boy—­“I thought I’d tell you—­”

“Nonsense!  Gerald, go back to bed!”

“I can’t sleep, Philip—­”

“Can’t sleep?  Oh, that’s the trouble, is it?  Well, then, sit here and talk to me.”  He gave a mighty yawn—­“I’m not sleepy, either; I can go days without it.  Here!—­here’s a comfortable chair to sprawl in. . . .  It’s daylight already; doesn’t the morning air smell sweet?  I’ve a jug of milk and some grapes and peaches in my ice-cupboard if you feel inclined.  No?  All right; stretch out, sight for a thousand yards, and fire at will.”

Gerald strove to smile; for a while he lay loosely in the arm-chair, his listless eyes intent on the strange, dim light which fell across the waste of sea fog.  Only the water along the shore’s edge remained visible; all else was a blank wall behind which, stretching to the horizon, lay the unseen ocean.  Already a few restless gulls were on the wing, sheering inland; and their raucous, treble cries accented the pallid stillness.

But the dawn was no paler than the boy’s face—­no more desolate.  Trouble was his, the same old trouble that has dogged the trail of folly since time began; and Selwyn knew it and waited.

At last the boy broke out:  “This is a cowardly trick—­this slinking in to you with all my troubles after what you’ve done for me—­after the rotten way I’ve treated you—­”

“Look here, my boy!” said Selwyn coolly, crossing one knee over the other and dropping both hands into the pockets of his pajamas—­“I asked you to come to me, didn’t I?  Well, then; don’t criticise my judgment in doing it.  It isn’t likely I’d ask you to do a cowardly thing.”

“You don’t understand what a wretched scrape I’m in—­”

“I don’t yet; but you’re going to tell me—­”

“Philip, I can’t—­I simply cannot.  It’s so contemptible—­and you warned me—­and I owe you already so much—­”

“You owe me a little money,” observed Selwyn with a careless smile, “and you’ve a lifetime to pay it in.  What is the trouble now; do you need more?  I haven’t an awful lot, old fellow—­worse luck!—­but what I have is at your call—­as you know perfectly well.  Is that all that is worrying you?”

“No—­not all.  I—­Neergard has lent me money—­done things—­placed me under obligations. . . .  I liked him, you know; I trusted him. . . .  People he desired to know I made him known to.  He was a—­a trifle peremptory at times—­as though my obligations to him left me no choice but to take him to such people as he desired to meet. . . .  We—­we had trouble—­recently.”