with Mrs. Norman.  Her tears and her entreaties I had resisted.  The confession of her motives overpowered me.  It is right,” cried Mr. Sarrazin, suddenly warming into enthusiasm, “that these two women should meet.  Remember how that poor girl has proved that her repentance is no sham.  I say, she has a right to tell, and the lady whom she has injured has a right to hear, what she has done to atone for the past, what confession she is willing to make to the one woman in the world (though she is a divorced woman) who is most interested in hearing what Miss Westerfield’s life has been with that wretched brother of yours.  Ah, yes, I know what the English cant might say.  Away with the English cant! it is the worst obstacle to the progress of the English nation!”

Randal listened absently:  he was thinking.

There could be little doubt to what destination Sydney Westerfield had betaken herself, when she left the lawyer’s office.  At that moment, perhaps, she and Catherine were together—­and together alone.

Mr. Sarrazin had noticed his friend’s silence.  “Is it possible you don’t agree with me?” he asked.

“I don’t feel as hopefully as you do, if these two ladies meet.”

“Ah, my friend, you are not a sanguine man by nature.  If Mrs. Norman treats our poor Sydney just as a commonplace ill-tempered woman would treat her, I shall be surprised indeed.  Say, if you like, that she will be insulted—­of this I am sure, she will not return it; there is no expiation that is too bitter to be endured by that resolute little creature.  Her fine nature has been tempered by adversity.  A hard life has been Sydney’s, depend upon it, in the years before you and I met with her.  Good heavens!  What would my wife say if she heard me?  The women are nice, but they have their drawbacks.  Let us wait till tomorrow, my dear boy; and let us believe in Sydney without allowing our wives—­I beg your pardon, I mean my wife—­to suspect in what forbidden directions our sympathies are leading us.  Oh, for shame!”

Who could persist in feeling depressed in the company of such a man as this?  Randal went home with the influence of Mr. Sarrazin’s sanguine nature in undisturbed possession of him, until his old servant’s gloomy face confronted him at the door.

“Anything gone wrong, Malcolm?”

“I’m sorry to say, sir, Mr. Herbert has left us.”

“Left us!  Why?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where has he gone?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Is there no letter?  No message?”

“There’s a message, sir.  Mr. Herbert came back—­”

“Stop!  Where had he been when he came back?”

“He said he felt a little lonely after you went out, and he thought it might cheer him up if he went to the club.  I was to tell you where he had gone if you asked what had become of him.  He said it kindly and pleasantly—­quite like himself, sir.  But, when he came back—­if you’ll excuse my saying so—­I never saw a man in a worse temper.  ’Tell my brother I am obliged to him for his hospitality, and I won’t take advantage of it any longer.’  That was Mr. Herbert’s message.  I tried to say a word.  He banged the door, and away he went.”