"The poor do not choose their hours, Alban Kennedy. Sit down, if you please, and talk to me. I have much to say to you."
He did not rise from his chair, but indicated a rude seat in the corner by the chimney and waited until his unwilling guest had taken it. Alban judged that his own altered appearance and his absence from Union Street must be the cause of his displeasure. He could guess no other reason.
"Do you love my daughter, Alban Kennedy?"
"You know that I do, Paul. Have we not always been good friends? I came to tell you about a piece of great good fortune which has happened to me and to find out why Lois had not written to me. You see for yourself that there is a great change in me. One of the richest men in London considers that I have a claim, to some of his money--through some distant relative, it appears--and I am living at his house almost as his own son."
"Is that why you forget your old friends so quickly?"
"I have never forgotten them. I wrote to Lois twice."
"Did you speak of marriage in your letters?"
The lad's face flushed crimson. He knew that he could not tell Paul Boriskoff the truth.
"I did not speak of marriage--why should I?" he exclaimed; "it was never your wish that we should speak of it until Lois is twenty-one. She will not be that for more than three years--why do you ask me the question to-night?"
"Because you have learned to love another woman."
A dead silence fell in the room. The old man continued to tap gently upon the coil of tube, rapidly assuming a fantastic shape under the masterly touch of a trained hand. A candle flickered by him upon a crazy table where stood a crust of bread and a lump of coarse cheese. Not boastfully had he told Richard Gessner that he would accept nothing for himself. He was even poorer than he had been six weeks ago when he discovered that his old enemy was alive.
"You love another woman, Alban Kennedy, and you have wished to forget my daughter. Do not say that it is not the truth, for I read it upon your face. You should be ashamed to come here unless you can deny it. Fortune has been kind to you, but how have you rewarded those for whom she has nothing? I say that you have forgotten them--been ashamed of them as they have now the right to be ashamed of you."
He put his hammer down and looked the lad straight in the face. Upon Alban's part there was an intense desire to confess everything and to tell his old friend of all those distressing doubts and perplexities which had so harassed him since he went to Hampstead. If he could have done so, much would have been spared him in the time to come. But he found it impossible to open his heart to an alien,--nor did he believe Paul Boriskoff capable of appreciating the emotions which now tortured him.