“Make an apology,” suggested Arnold.  “Sir Patrick may be a little irritable and bitter; but he’s a just man and a kind man.  Say you were not guilty of any intentional disrespect toward him—­and you will say enough.”

“All right!”

Sir Patrick, deep in an old Venetian edition of The Decameron, found himself suddenly recalled from medieval Italy to modern England, by no less a person than Geoffrey Delamayn.

“What do you want?” he asked, coldly.

“I want to make an apology,” said Geoffrey.  “Let by-gones be by-gones—­and that sort of thing.  I wasn’t guilty of any intentional disrespect toward you.  Forgive and forget.  Not half a bad motto, Sir—­eh?”

It was clumsily expressed—­but still it was an apology.  Not even Geoffrey could appeal to Sir Patrick’s courtesy and Sir Patrick’s consideration in vain.

“Not a word more, Mr. Delamayn!” said the polite old man.  “Accept my excuses for any thing which I may have said too sharply, on my side; and let us by all means forget the rest.”

Having met the advance made to him, in those terms, he paused, expecting Geoffrey to leave him free to return to the Decameron.  To his unutterable astonishment, Geoffrey suddenly stooped over him, and whispered in his ear, “I want a word in private with you.”

Sir Patrick started back, as if Geoffrey had tried to bite him.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Delamayn—­what did you say?”

“Could you give me a word in private?”

Sir Patrick put back the Decameron; and bowed in freezing silence.  The confidence of the Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn was the last confidence in the world into which he desired to be drawn.  “This is the secret of the apology!” he thought.  “What can he possibly want with Me?”

“It’s about a friend of mine,” pursued Geoffrey; leading the way toward one of the windows.  “He’s in a scrape, my friend is.  And I want to ask your advice.  It’s strictly private, you know.”  There he came to a full stop—­and looked to see what impression he had produced, so far.

Sir Patrick declined, either by word or gesture, to exhibit the slightest anxiety to hear a word more.

“Would you mind taking a turn in the garden?” asked Geoffrey.

Sir Patrick pointed to his lame foot.  “I have had my allowance of walking this morning,” he said.  “Let my infirmity excuse me.”

Geoffrey looked about him for a substitute for the garden, and led the way back again toward one of the convenient curtained recesses opening out of the inner wall of the library.  “We shall be private enough here,” he said.

Sir Patrick made a final effort to escape the proposed conference—­an undisguised effort, this time.

“Pray forgive me, Mr. Delamayn.  Are you quite sure that you apply to the right person, in applying to me?”

“You’re a Scotch lawyer, ain’t you?”

“Certainly.”