“Oh, no!  Not as far as I am concerned.  What I have done is a bagatelle.  I merely furnished a little money for recruiting purposes.”

“It is not a little thing to send a good man to the front, Mr. Merwyn.”

“Nor is it a little thing not to go one’s self,” was the bitter reply.  Then he added, hastily, “I am eager to see the book to which you refer.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Merwyn, your words plainly reveal your inclination.  Would you not be happier if you followed it?”

“I cannot, Mr. Vosburgh, nor can I explain further.  Therefore, I must patiently submit to all adverse judgment.”  The words were spoken quietly and almost wearily.

“I suppose that your reasons are good and satisfactory.”

“They are neither good nor satisfactory,” burst out the young man with sudden and vindictive impetuosity.  “They are the curse of my life.  Pardon me.  I am forgetting myself.  I believe you are friendly at least.  Please let all this be as if it were not.”  Then, as if the possible import of his utterance had flashed upon him, he drew himself up and said, coldly, “If, under the circumstances, you feel I am unworthy of trust—­”

“Mr. Merwyn,” interrupted his host, “I am accustomed to deal with men and to be vigilantly on my guard.  My words led to what has passed between us, and it ends here and now.  I would not give you my hand did I not trust you.  Come, here is the book;” and he led the way to a conversation relating to it.

Merwyn did his best to show a natural interest in the subject, but it was evident that a tumult had been raised in his mind difficult to control.  At last he said:  “May I take the book home?  I will return it after careful reading.”

Mr. Vosburgh accompanied him to the drawing-room, and Marian sportively introduced him to Major Strahan.

For a few minutes he was the gayest and most brilliant member of the party, and then he took his leave, the young girl remarking, “Since you have a book under your arm we cannot hope to detain you, for I have observed that, with your true antiquarian, the longer people have been dead the more interesting they become.”

“That is perfectly natural,” he replied, “for we can form all sorts of opinions about them, and they can never prove that we are wrong.”

“More’s the pity, if we are wrong.  Good-night.”

“Order an extra chop, Merwyn, and I’ll breakfast with you,” cried Strahan.  “I’ve only two days more, you know.”

“Well, papa,” said Marian, joining him later in the library, “did you and Mr. Merwyn settle the precise date when the Dutch took Holland?”

“‘More’s the pity, if we are wrong!’ I have been applying your words to the living rather than to the dead.”

“To Mr. Merwyn, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Has he been unbosoming himself to you?”

“Oh, no, indeed!”

“Why then has he so awakened your sympathy?”