“My dear fellow,” said Brand, interrupting him, “there is no such alternative—­there never was any such alternative.  Do you not think I would rather give up twenty fortunes than have to go and bid good-bye to Natalie?  It is not a question of money.  I suspected before—­I know now—­that Lind never meant to let his daughter marry.  He would not definitely say no to me while he thought I could be persuaded about this money business; as soon as I refused that, he was frank and explicit enough.  I see the whole thing clearly enough now.  Well, he has not altogether succeeded.”

His eye happened to light on the ring on his finger, and the frown on his face lifted somewhat.

“If I could only forget Lind; if I could forget why it was that I had to go to America, I should think far less of the pain of separation.  If I could go to Natalie, and say, ’Look at what we must do, for the sake of something greater than our own wishes and dreams,’ then I think I could bid her good-bye without much faltering; but when you know that it is unnecessary—­that you are being made the victim of a piece of personal revenge—­how can you look forward with any great enthusiasm to the new life that lies before you?  That is what troubles me, Evelyn.”

“I cannot argue the matter with you,” his friend said, looking down, and evidently much troubled himself.  “I cannot help remembering that it was I let you in for all this—­”

“Don’t say that, Evelyn,” Brand broke in, quickly.  “Do you think I would have it otherwise?  Once in America, I shall no doubt forget how I came to go there.  I shall have something to do.”

“I—­I was going to say that—­that perhaps you are not quite fair to Lind.  You impute motives that may not exist.”

Lord Evelyn flushed a little; it was almost as if he were excusing or defending one he had no particular wish to defend; but all the same, with some hesitation, he continued,

“Consider Lind’s position.  Mind, your reading of his conduct is only pure assumption.  It is quite possible that he would be really and extremely surprised if he knew that you fancied he had been allowing personal feelings to sway his decision.  But suppose this—­suppose he is honestly convinced that you would be of great service in America.  He has seen what you can do in the way of patient persuading of people.  I know he has plenty around him who can do the risky business—­men who have been adventurous all their lives—­who would like nothing better than to be commissioned to set up a secret printing-press next door to the Commissary of Police in St. Petersburg.  I say he has plenty of people like that; but very few who have persistence and patience enough to do what you have been doing in the north of England.  He told me so himself.  Very well.  Suppose he thinks that what you have been doing this man Molyneux can carry on?  Suppose, in short, that, if he had no daughter at all, he would be anxious to send you to the States?”