"I suppose so," he answered, dryly. Then, after a pause--"Love is a mighty queer matter, it seems to me. Here have I been trying to win her heart for the last five years, and, just when I think I am succeeding, in steps a fellow whom she has never seen before, who does in a month or two what I failed to do in years."

"They have a great deal to thank you for," said Angela.

Percival shook his head.

"That's a mere delusion of their generous hearts," he said. "I've been a selfish brute: that's all."

It seemed easier to him, after this, to discuss the matter with Angela from every possible point of view. He told her more than he had told anyone in the world of the secret workings of his mind; she alone had any true idea of what it had cost him to give Elizabeth up. He took a great deal of pleasure in dissecting his own character, and it soothed and flattered him that she should listen with so much interest. He was always in a better temper when he had been talking to Angela. He did most of the talking--it must be owned that he liked to hear himself talk--and she made a perfect listener. He, in turn, amused and interested her very much. She had never come across a man of his type before. His trenchant criticisms of literature, his keen delight in politics, his lively argumentativeness, were charming to her. He had always had the knack of quarrelling with Elizabeth, even when he was most devoted to her; but he did not quarrel with Angela. She quieted him; he hardly knew how to be irritable in her presence.

The story of Kitty's marriage excited his deepest ire. He was indignant with his sister, disgusted with Hugo Luttrell. He himself told it, with some rather strong expressions of anger, to Brian, who listened in perfect silence.

"What can you say for your cousin?" said Percival, turning upon him fiercely. "What sort of a fellow is he? Do you consider him fit to marry my sister?"

"No, I don't," Brian answered. "I am sorry to say so, but I don't think Hugo is in the least to be relied on. I have been fond of him, but----"

"A screw loose somewhere, is there? I thought as much."

"He may do better now that he is married," said Brian. But he felt that it was poor comfort.

They went straight back to England, and it was curious to observe how naturally and continuously a certain division of the party was always taking place. Brian and Elizabeth were, of course, a great deal together; it seemed equally inevitable that Percival should pair off with Angela, and that Mrs. Norman, Rupert Vivian, and Mr. Fane should be left to entertain each other.

It was on the last day of the voyage that Brian sought out Percival and took him by the arm. "Look here, Heron," he said. "I have never thanked you for what you have done for me."

Percival was smoking. He took his pipe out of his mouth, and said, "Don't," very curtly, and then replaced the meerschaum, and puffed at it energetically.

"But I must."

"Stop," said Heron. "Don't go on till you've heard me speak." He took his pipe in his hand and knocked it meditatively against the bulwarks.

"There's a great deal that might be said on both sides. Do you think that any of us have acted wisely or rightly throughout this business?"

"I don't think I have. I think Elizabeth has."

"Oh, Elizabeth. Well, she's a woman. Women have a strange sort of pleasure in acting properly. But I don't think that even your Elizabeth was quite perfect. Now, don't knock me down; she's my cousin, and I knew her years before you did. She's your cousin, too, by the way; but that does not signify. What I wanted to say was this:--We have all been more or less idiotic. I made a confounded fool of myself once or twice, and, begging your pardon, Brian, I think you did, too."

"I think I did," said Brian, reflectively.

"Elizabeth will take care of you now, and see that you have your due complement of commonsense," said Percival. "Well, look here. I've been wrong and I've been right at times; so have you. I have something to thank you for, and perhaps you feel the same sort of thing towards me. I think it is a pity to make a sort of profit and loss calculation as to which of the two has been the more wronged, or has the more need to be grateful. Let bygones be bygones. I want you and Elizabeth to promise me not to speak or think of those old days again. We can't be friends if you do. I was very hard on you both sometimes: and--well, you know the rest. If you forgive, you must also forget."

Brian looked at him for a moment. "Upon my word, Percival," he said, warmly, "I can't imagine why she did not prefer you to me. You're quite the most large-hearted man I ever knew."

"Oh, come, that's too strong," said Heron, carelessly. "You're a cut above me, you know, in every way. You will suit her admirably. As for me, I'm a rough, coarse sort of a fellow--a newspaper correspondent, a useful literary hack--that's all. I never quite understood until--until lately--what my position was in the eyes of the world."

"Why, I thought you considered your profession a very high one," said Brian.

"So I do. Only I'm at the bottom of the tree, and I want to be at the top."

There was a pause. A little doubt was visible upon Brian's face: Percival saw it and understood.

"There's one thing you needn't do," he said, with a sort of haughty abruptness. "Don't offer me help of any kind. I won't stand it. I don't want charity. If I could be glad that I was not going to marry Elizabeth, it would be because she is a rich woman. I wonder, by-the-bye, what Dino Vasari is going to do."

They had not heard of Dino's death when Percival left England.

"If I were you," Percival went on, "I should not stand on ceremony. I should get a special licence in London and marry her at once. You'll have a bother about settlements and provisions and compromises without end, if you don't."

Brian smiled, and even coloured a little at the proposition. "I could not ask her to do it," he said.

"Then I'll ask her," said Percival with his inimitable _sang-froid_. "In the very nick of time, here she comes. Mademoiselle, I was talking about you."

Elizabeth smiled. The colour had come back to her cheeks, the brightness to her eyes. She was the incarnation of splendid health and happiness.

Percival looked from her to Brian, remarking silently the gravity and nobleness of his expression and the singular refinement of his features, which could be seen so much more plainly, now that he had returned to his old fashion of wearing a moustache and small pointed beard, instead of the disfiguring mass of hair with which he had once striven to disguise his face. Percival was clean shaven, except for the heavy, black moustache, which he fingered as he spoke.

"You are my children by adoption," he said, cheerfully, "and I am going to speak to you as a grandfather might. Elizabeth, my opinion is, that if you want to avoid vexatious delays, you had better get married to this gentleman here before you present yourself in Scotland at all. You have no idea how much it would simplify matters. Brian won't suggest such a thing; he is afraid you will think that he wants to make ducks and drakes of your money----"

"His money," said Elizabeth.

"Well, his or yours, or that Italian fellow's--I don't see that it matters much. Why don't you stop in London, get a special licence, and be married from Vivian's house? I know he would be delighted."

"It is easy to make the suggestion," said Brian, "but perhaps Elizabeth would not like such haste."

"I will do what you like," said Elizabeth.

"Let me congratulate you," remarked Percival to Brian; "you are about to marry that treasure amongst wives--a woman who tries to please you and not herself. Well, I have broken the ice, settle the matter as you please."

"No, Percival, don't go," said Elizabeth. But he laughed, shook his head, and left them to themselves.

As usual he went to Angela, and allowed himself to look as gloomy as he chose. She asked him what was the matter.

"I have been playing the heavy father, and giving away the bride," he said. And then he told her what he had advised.

"You want to have it over," she said, looking at him with her soft, serious eyes.

"To tell the truth, I believe I do."

"It is hard on you, now."

"Not a bit," said Percival, taking a seat beside her. "I ought not to mind. If I were Luttrell, I probably should glory in self-sacrifice, and say I didn't mind. Unfortunately I do. But nothing will drive me to say that it is hard. All's fair in love and war. Brian has proved himself the better man."

"Not the stronger man," said Angela, almost involuntarily.

"You think not? I don't think I have been strong! I have been wretchedly weak sometimes. Ah, there they come; they have settled it between them.

They look bright, don't they?"

Angela made no answer, she felt a little indignant with Brian and Elizabeth for looking bright. It was decidedly inconsiderate towards Percival.

But Percival made no show of his wound to anybody except Angela. He seemed heartily glad when he heard that Elizabeth had consented to the speedy marriage in London, he was as cheerful in manner as usual, he held his head high, and ate and drank and laughed in his accustomed way.

Even Elizabeth was deceived, and thought he was cured of his love for her. But the restless gleam of his eye and the dark fold between his brow, in spite of his merriment, told a different tale to the two who understood him best--Brian and Angela.

The marriage took place from Rupert's house, according to Percival's suggestion. It was a quiet wedding, and the guests were very various in quality. Mr. Heron came from Scotland for the occasion, Rupert and his sister, Mrs. Norman, Captain Somers and the two seamen--Jackson and Mason, were all present. Percival alone did not come. He had said nothing about his intention of staying away, but sent a note of excuse at the last moment. He had resumed his newspaper work, and a sudden call upon him required instant attention. Elizabeth was deeply disappointed.