He knows that he ought to speak; but the moment passes and he has not spoken.

And between him and the word unsaid there rises on the instant a tiny streamlet of division, which is to grow and broaden with the nights and days, till it flows, a stream of fate, not to be turned back or crossed; and all the familiar fields of life are ruined and blotted out.
Finally, as the great patron was going, Cuningham whispered a word in his ear.

Lord Findon turned to Fenwick.
'You're in this house, too?
Have you anything you'd let me see ?' Fenwick, flushed and stammering, begged him to walk upstairs.
Cuningham's puzzled impression was that he gave the invitation reluctantly, but could not make up his mind not to give it.
They marched upstairs, Lord Findon and Cuningham behind.
'Does he ever sell ?' said Lord Findon, in Cuningham's ear, nodding towards the broad shoulders and black head of Watson just in front.
'Not often,' said Cuningham, after a pause.
'How, then, does he afford himself ?' said the other, smiling.
'Oh! he has means--just enough to keep him from starving.

He's a dear old fellow! He has too many ideas for this wicked world.' Cuningham spoke with a pleasant loyalty.

Lord Findon shrugged his shoulders.
'The ideas are too lugubrious! And this young fellow--this Fenwick--where did you pick him up ?' Cuningham explained.
'A character!--perhaps a genius ?' said Findon.