cried Stephen hurriedly.

'Ay, no other; and a better-hearted man God A'mighty never made.'

'Is he so much hurt?'

'I have heard,' said Mr. Swancourt, not noticing Stephen, 'that he has a
son in London, a very promising young fellow.'

'Oh, how he must be hurt!' repeated Stephen.

'A beetle couldn't hurt very little. Well, sir, good-night t'ye; and ye,
sir; and you, miss, I'm sure.'

Mr. Cannister had been making unnoticeable motions of withdrawal, and by
the time this farewell remark came from his lips he was just outside the
door of the room. He tramped along the hall, stayed more than a minute
endeavouring to close the door properly, and then was lost to their
hearing.

Stephen had meanwhile turned and said to the vicar:

'Please excuse me this evening! I must leave. John Smith is my father.'

The vicar did not comprehend at first.

'What did you say?' he inquired.

'John Smith is my father,' said Stephen deliberately.

A surplus tinge of redness rose from Mr. Swancourt's neck, and came
round over his face, the lines of his features became more firmly
defined, and his lips seemed to get thinner. It was evident that a
series of little circumstances, hitherto unheeded, were now fitting
themselves together, and forming a lucid picture in Mr. Swancourt's mind
in such a manner as to render useless further explanation on Stephen's
part.

'Indeed,' the vicar said, in a voice dry and without inflection.

This being a word which depends entirely upon its tone for its meaning,
Mr. Swancourt's enunciation was equivalent to no expression at all.

'I have to go now,' said Stephen, with an agitated bearing, and a
movement as if he scarcely knew whether he ought to run off or stay
longer. 'On my return, sir, will you kindly grant me a few minutes'
private conversation?'

'Certainly. Though antecedently it does not seem possible that there can
be anything of the nature of private business between us.'

Mr. Swancourt put on his straw hat, crossed the drawing-room, into which
the moonlight was shining, and stepped out of the French window into
the verandah. It required no further effort to perceive what, indeed,
reasoning might have foretold as the natural colour of a mind whose
pleasures were taken amid genealogies, good dinners, and patrician
reminiscences, that Mr. Swancourt's prejudices were too strong for his
generosity, and that Stephen's moments as his friend and equal were
numbered, or had even now ceased