I thought he looked ill at ease, and I noticed that he was less ruddy and more careworn than when I had first met him.
I am afraid I greeted him rather coldly, for I remembered what had taken place at our last meeting.
"It is very kind of you to call," was my reply.
"Not at all, I ought to apologize for coming."
"Have you heard from Hugh?" I asked, for I was determined, as far as possible, to make him feel his duty to his son.
I saw his lips shut, and his eyes and face grow harder, as I spoke.
"I have heard nothing," he replied. "I do not expect to, neither do I wish to."
I was silent at this, for it was not for me to interfere in his relations with his son, but I could not help feeling angry. But there was pity in my heart too, for I could not help seeing that the man was suffering. Why he was suffering I could not tell, but suffering he was.
"You have not been to see us lately," he said. "I hope what you said when we last met is not final. I--I should be sorry if the neighborly relations which I had hoped were established came to an end."
"I have been nowhere," I replied. "The weather has been very wet lately, and I have scarcely ventured out of doors."
"Life is not very gay," I said. "It can scarcely be."
"Yes, a friend came down last week and spent three days with me," I replied, wondering what was in the man's mind.
"The newspapers do not bring us very good tidings."
"No, I am afraid we shall have a great deal of bad tidings before the good comes."
After that there was an awkward silence for some time.
"I am a lonely man myself," he went on. "Of course I have my business, and my public work, but I should be very glad if you would come up to see us sometimes. If you would let me know when you would come, I'd always send a car for you."
"What is in the man's mind?" I asked myself. "Surely he did not come here simply to say this."
"Naturally I did not think my presence would be welcome after our last interview, and----"
"Nothing of the kind," he interrupted, almost eagerly. "I hope you will forgive me for coming so informally, but my wife and I were wondering whether you would come up to-night. Could you? Of course I will send a car for you."
I reflected a few seconds before replying. It is true I had told him in a fit of anger that I should refuse his hospitality in future, but I wondered whether he was not repenting of his action towards Hugh; wondered, too, whether by going I could not bring about a better relationship between them and soften his heart. After all, I owed it to Hugh. But, if the truth must be confessed, there was another reason which made me long to go. I knew it was weakness on my part, knew, too, that I was a madman to encourage such feelings. As I have repeated in this history so many times, with dreary monotony, I had received my death sentence, and as I looked at my face each morning in the glass, and saw it become thinner and thinner, I had no misapprehension about the truth of the doctor's words. Therefore it was worse than madness for me to think about Isabella Lethbridge as I did; and yet--let me repeat it again--I was not in love with her.