Why should he go?

“I am well aware, Mr. Staveley, that you are one of those gentlemen who amuse themselves by frequently saying such things to girls.  I had learned your character in that respect before I had been in the house two days.”

“Then, Miss Furnival, you learned what was very false.  May I ask who has blackened me in this way in your estimation?” It will be easily seen from this that Mr. Augustus Staveley and Miss Furnival were at the present moment alone together in one of the rooms at Noningsby.

“My informant,” she replied, “has been no one special sinner whom you can take by the throat and punish.  Indeed, if you must shoot anybody, it should be chiefly yourself, and after that your father, and mother, and sisters.  But you need not talk of being black.  Such sins are venial now-a-days, and convey nothing deeper than a light shade of brown.”

“I regard a man who can act in such a way as very base.”

“Such a way as what, Mr. Staveley?”

“A man who can win a girl’s heart for his own amusement.”

“I said nothing about the winning of hearts.  That is treachery of the worst dye; but I acquit you of any such attempt.  When there is a question of the winning of hearts men look so different.”

“I don’t know how they look,” said Augustus, not altogether satisfied as to the manner in which he was being treated ­“but such has been my audacity, ­my too great audacity on the present occasion.”

“You are the most audacious of men, for your audacity would carry you to the feet of another lady to-morrow without the slightest check.”

“And that is the only answer I am to receive from you?”

“It is quite answer enough.  What would you have me do?  Get up and decline the honour of being Mrs. Augustus Staveley with a curtsy?”

“No ­I would have you do nothing of the kind.  I would have you get up and accept the honour, ­with a kiss.”

“So that you might have the kiss, and I might have the ­; I was going to say disappointment, only that would be untrue.  Let me assure you that I am not so demonstrative in my tokens of regard.”

“I wonder whether you mean that you are not so honest?”

“No, Mr. Staveley; I mean nothing of the kind; and you are very impertinent to express such a supposition.  What have I done or said to make you suppose that I have lost my heart to you?”

“As you have mine, it is at any rate human nature in me to hope that I might have yours.”

“Psha! your heart!  You have been making a shuttlecock of it till it is doubtful whether you have not banged it to pieces.  I know two ladies who carry in their caps two feathers out of it.  It is so easy to see when a man is in love.  They all go cross-gartered like Malvolio; ­cross-gartered in their looks and words and doings.”

“And there is no touch of all this in me?”

“You cross-gartered!  You have never got so far yet as a lack-a-daisical twist to the corner of your mouth.  Did you watch Mr. Orme before he went away?”

“Why; was he cross-gartered?”

“But you men have no eyes; you never see anything.  And your idea of love-making is to sit under a tree wishing, wondering whether the ripe fruit will fall down into your mouth.  Ripe fruit does sometimes fall, and then it is all well with you.  But if it won’t, you pass on and say that it is sour.  As for climbing ­”

“The fruit generally falls too fast to admit of such exercise,” said Staveley, who did not choose that all the sharp things should be said on the other side.

“And that is the result of your very extended experience?  The orchards which have been opened to you have not, I fear, been of the first quality.  Mr. Staveley, my hand will do very well by itself.  Such is not the sort of climbing that is required.  That is what I call stooping to pick up the fruit that has fallen.”  And as she spoke, she moved a little away from him on the sofa.

“And how is a man to climb?”

“Do you really mean that you want a lesson?  But if I were to tell you, my words would be thrown away.  Men will not labour who have gotten all that they require without work.  Why strive to deserve any woman, when women are plenty who do not care to be deserved?  That plan of picking up the fallen apples is so much the easier.”

The lesson might perhaps have been given, and Miss Furnival might have imparted to Mr. Staveley her idea of “excelsior” in the matter of love-making, had not Mr. Staveley’s mother come into the room at that moment.  Mrs. Staveley was beginning to fear that the results of her Christmas hospitality would not be satisfactory.  Peregrine Orme, whom she would have been so happy to welcome to the warmest corner of her household temple as a son, had been sent away in wretchedness and disappointment.  Madeline was moping about the house, hardly making an effort to look like herself; attributing, in her mother’s ears, all her complaint to that unexpected interview with Peregrine Orme, but not so attributing it ­as her mother fancied ­with correctness.  And there was Felix Graham still in the room up stairs, the doctor having said that he might be moved in a day or two; ­that is, such movement might possibly be effected without detriment; ­but having said also that another ten days of uninterrupted rest would be very desirable.  And now, in addition to this, her son Augustus was to be found on every wet morning closeted somewhere with Sophia Furnival; ­on every wet morning, and sometimes on dry mornings also!

And then, on this very day, Lady Staveley had discovered that Felix Graham’s door in the corridor was habitually left open.  She knew her child too well, and was too clear and pure in her own mind, to suppose that there was anything wrong in this; ­that clandestine talkings were arranged, or anything planned in secret.  What she feared was that which really occurred.  The door was left open, and as Madeline passed Felix would say a word, and then Madeline would pause and answer him.  Such words as they were might have been spoken before all the household, and if so spoken would have been free from danger.  But they were not free from danger when spoken in that way, in the passage of a half-closed doorway; ­all which Lady Staveley understood perfectly.

“Baker,” she had said, with more of anger in her voice than was usual with her, “why do you leave that door open?”

“I think it sweetens the room, my lady;” and, indeed, Felix Graham sometimes thought so too.

“Nonsense; every sound in the house must be heard.  Keep it shut, if you please.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Mrs. Baker ­who also understood perfectly.

“He is better, my darling,” said Mrs. Baker to Madeline, the same day; “and, indeed, for that he is well enough as regards eating and drinking.  But it would be cruelty to move him yet.  I heard what the doctor said.”

“Who talks of moving him?”

“Well, he talks of it himself; and the doctor said it might be possible.  But I know what that means.”

“What does it mean?”

“Why, just this:  that if we want to get rid of him, it won’t quite be the death of him.”

“But who wants to get rid of him?”

“I’m sure I don’t.  I don’t mind my trouble the least in life.  He’s as nice a young gentleman as ever I sat beside the bed of; and he’s full of spirit ­he is.”

And then Madeline appealed to her mother.  Surely her mother would not let Mr. Graham be sent out of the house in his present state, merely because the doctor said it might be possible to move him without causing his instant death!  And tears stood in poor Madeline’s eyes as she thus pleaded the cause of the sick and wounded.  This again tormented Lady Staveley, who found it necessary to give further caution to Mrs. Baker.  “Baker,” she said, “how can you be so foolish as to be talking to Miss Madeline about Mr. Graham’s arm?”

“Who, my lady?  I, my lady?”

“Yes, you; when you know that the least thing frightens her.  Don’t you remember how ill it made her when Roger” ­Roger was an old family groom ­“when Roger had that accident?” Lady Staveley might have saved herself the trouble of the reminiscence as to Roger, for Baker knew more about it than that.  When Roger’s scalp had been laid bare by a fall, Miss Madeline had chanced to see it, and had fainted; but Miss Madeline was not fainting now.  Baker knew all about it, almost better than Lady Staveley herself.  It was of very little use talking to Baker about Roger the groom.  Baker thought that Mr. Felix Graham was a very nice young man, in spite of his “not being exactly handsomelike about the physgognomy,” as she remarked to one of the younger maids, who much preferred Peregrine Orme.

Coming away from this last interval with Mrs. Baker, Lady Staveley interrupted her son and Sophia Furnival in the back drawing-room, and began to feel that her solicitude for her children would be almost too much for her.  Why had she asked that nasty girl to her house, and why would not the nasty girl go away?  As for her going away, there was no present hope; for it had been arranged that she should stay for another fortnight.  Why could not the Fates have been kind, and have allowed Felix Graham and Miss Furnival to fall in love with each other?  “I can never make a daughter of her if he does marry her,” Lady Staveley said to herself, as she looked at them.

Augustus looked as though he were detected, and stammered out some question about his mother and the carriage; but Miss Furnival did not for a moment lose her easy presence of mind.  “Lady Staveley,” said she, “why does not your son go and hunt, or shoot, or fish, instead of staying in the house all day?  It seems to me that his time is so heavy on his hands that he will almost have to hang himself.”

“I’m sure I can’t tell,” said Lady Staveley, who was not so perfect an actor as her guest.

“I do think gentlemen in the house in the morning always look so unfortunate.  You have been endeavouring to make yourself agreeable, but you know you’ve been yawning.”

“Do you suppose then that men never sit still in the morning?” said Augustus.

“Oh, in their chambers, yes; or on the bench, and perhaps also behind counters; but they very seldom do so in a drawing-room.  You have been fidgeting about with the poker till you have destroyed the look of the fireplace.”

“Well, I’ll go and fidget up stairs with Graham,” said he; and so he left the room.

“Nasty, sly girl,” said Lady Staveley to herself as she took up her work and sat herself down in her own chair.

Augustus did go up to his friend and found him reading letters.  There was no one else in the room, and the door when Augustus reached it was properly closed.  “I think I shall be off to-morrow, old boy,” said Felix.

“Then I think you’ll do no such thing,” said Augustus.  “What’s in the wind now?”

“The doctor said this morning that I could be moved without danger.”

“He said that it might possibly be done in two or three days ­that was all.  What on earth makes you so impatient?  You’ve nothing to do.  Nobody else wants to see you; and nobody here wants to get rid of you.”

“You’re wrong in all your three statements.”

“The deuce I am!  Who wants to get rid of you?”

“That shall come last.  I have something to do, and somebody else does want to see me.  I’ve got a letter from Mary here, and another from Mrs. Thomas;” and he held up to view two letters which he had received, and which had, in truth, startled him.

“Mary’s duenna; ­the artist who is supposed to be moulding the wife.”

“Yes; Mary’s duenna, or Mary’s artist, whichever you please.”

“And which of them wants to see you?  It’s just like a woman, to require a man’s attendance exactly when he is unable to move.”

Then Felix, though he did not give up the letters to be read, described to a certain extent their contents.  “I don’t know what on earth has happened,” he said.  “Mary is praying to be forgiven, and saying that it is not her fault; and Mrs. Thomas is full of apologies, declaring that her conscience forces her to tell everything; and yet, between them both, I do not know what has happened.”

“Miss Snow has probably lost the key of the workbox you gave her.”

“I have not given her a workbox.”

“Then the writing-desk.  That’s what a man has to endure when he will make himself head schoolmaster to a young lady.  And so you’re going to look after your charge with your limbs still in bandages?”

“Just so;” and then he took up the two letters and read them again, while Staveley still sat on the foot of the bed.  “I wish I knew what to think about it,” said Felix.

“About what?” said the other.  And then there was another pause, and another reading of a portion of the letters.

“There seems something ­something almost frightful to me,” said Felix gravely, “in the idea of marrying a girl in a few months’ time, who now, at so late a period of our engagement, writes to me in that sort of cold, formal way.”

“It’s the proper moulded-wife style, you may depend,” said Augustus.

“I’ll tell you what, Staveley, if you can talk to me seriously for five minutes, I shall be obliged to you.  If that is impossible to you, say so, and I will drop the matter.”

“Well, go on; I am serious enough in what I intend to express, even though I may not be so in my words.”

“I’m beginning to have my doubts about this dear girl.”

“I’ve had my doubts for some time.”

“Not, mark you, with regard to myself.  The question is not now whether I can love her sufficiently for my own happiness.  On that side I have no longer the right to a doubt.”

“But you wouldn’t marry her if you did not love her.”

“We need not discuss that.  But what if she does not love me?  What if she would think it a release to be freed from this engagement?  How am I to find that out?”

Augustus sat for a while silent, for he did feel that the matter was serious.  The case as he looked at it stood thus: ­His friend Graham had made a very foolish bargain, from which he would probably be glad to escape, though he could not now bring himself to say as much.  But this bargain, bad for him, would probably be very good for the young lady.  The young lady, having no shilling of her own, and no merits of birth or early breeding to assist her outlook in the world, might probably regard her ready-made engagement to a clever, kind-hearted, high-spirited man, as an advantage not readily to be abandoned.  Staveley, as a sincere friend, was very anxious that the match should be broken off; but he could not bring himself to tell Graham that he thought that the young lady would so wish.  According to his idea the young lady must undergo a certain amount of disappointment, and receive a certain amount of compensation.  Graham had been very foolish, and must pay for his folly.  But in preparing to do so, it would be better that he should see and acknowledge the whole truth of the matter.

“Are you sure that you have found out your own feelings?” Staveley said at last; and his tone was then serious enough even for his friend.

“It hardly matters whether I have or have not,” said Felix.

“It matters above all things; ­above all things, because as to them you may come to something like certainty.  Of the inside of her heart you cannot know so much.  The fact I take it is this ­that you would wish to escape from this bondage.”

“No; not unless I thought she regarded it as bondage also.  It may be that she does.  As for myself, I believe that at the present moment such a marriage would be for me the safest step that I could take.”

“Safe as against what danger?”

“All dangers.  How, if I should learn to love another woman, ­some one utterly out of my reach, ­while I am still betrothed to her?”

“I rarely flatter you, Graham, and don’t mean to do it now; but no girl ought to be out of your reach.  You have talent, position, birth, and gifts of nature, which should make you equal to any lady.  As for money, the less you have the more you should look to get.  But if you would cease to be mad, two years would give you command of an income.”

“But I shall never cease to be mad.”

“Who is it that cannot be serious, now?”

“Well, I will be serious ­serious enough.  I can afford to be so, as I have received my medical passport for to-morrow.  No girl, you say, ought to be out of my reach.  If the girl were one Miss Staveley, should she be regarded as out of my reach?”

“A man doesn’t talk about his own sister,” said Staveley, having got up from the bed and walked to the window, “and I know you don’t mean anything.”

“But, by heavens!  I do mean a great deal.”

“What is it you mean, then?”

“I mean this ­What would you say if you learned that I was a suitor for her hand?”

Staveley had been right in saying that a man does not talk about his own sister.  When he had declared, with so much affectionate admiration for his friend’s prowess, that he might aspire to the hand of any lady, that one retiring, modest-browed girl had not been thought of by him.  A man in talking to another man about women is always supposed to consider those belonging to himself as exempt from the incidents of the conversation.  The dearest friends do not talk to each other about their sisters when they have once left school; and a man in such a position as that now taken by Graham has to make fight for his ground as closely as though there had been no former intimacies.  My friend Smith in such a matter as that, though I have been hail fellow with him for the last ten years, has very little advantage over Jones, who was introduced to the house for the first time last week.  And therefore Staveley felt himself almost injured when Felix Graham spoke to him about Madeline.

“What would I say?  Well ­that is a question one does not understand, unless ­unless you really meant to state it as a fact that it was your intention to propose to her.”

“But I mean rather to state it as a fact that it is not my intention to propose to her.”

“Then we had better not speak of her.”

“Listen to me a moment.  In order that I may not do so, it will be better for me ­better for us all, that I should leave the house.”

“Do you mean to say ?”

“Yes, I do mean to say!  I mean to say all that your mind is now suggesting to you.  I quite understand your feelings when you declare that a man does not like to talk of his own sister, and therefore we will talk of your sister no more.  Old fellow, don’t look at me as though you meant to drop me.”

Augustus came back to the bedside, and again seating himself, put his hand almost caressingly over his friend’s shoulder.  “I did not think of this,” he said.

“No; one never does think of it,” Graham replied.

“And she?”

“She knows no more of it than that bed-post,” said Graham.  “The injury, such as there is, is all on one side.  But I’ll tell you who suspects it.”

“Baker?”

“Your mother.  I am much mistaken if you will not find that she, with all her hospitality, would prefer that I should recover my strength elsewhere.”

“But you have done nothing to betray yourself.”

“A mother’s ears are very sharp.  I know that it is so.  I cannot explain to you how.  Do you tell her that I think of getting up to London to-morrow, and see how she will take it.  And, Staveley, do not for a moment suppose that I am reproaching her.  She is quite right.  I believe that I have in no way committed myself ­that I have said no word to your sister with which Lady Staveley has a right to feel herself aggrieved; but if she has had the wit to read the thoughts of my bosom, she is quite right to wish that I were out of the house.”

Poor Lady Staveley had been possessed of no such wit at all.  The sphynx which she had read had been one much more in her own line.  She had simply read the thoughts in her daughter’s bosom ­or rather, the feelings in her daughter’s heart.

Augustus Staveley hardly knew what he ought to say.  He was not prepared to tell his friend that he was the very brother-in-law for whose connection he would be desirous.  Such a marriage for Madeline, even should Madeline desire it, would not be advantageous.  When Augustus told Graham that he had gifts of nature which made him equal to any lady, he did not include his own sister.  And yet the idea of acquiescing in his friend’s sudden departure was very painful to him.  “There can be no reason why you should not stay up here, you know,” at last he said; ­and in so saying he pronounced an absolute verdict against poor Felix.

On few matters of moment to a man’s own heart can he speak out plainly the whole truth that is in him.  Graham had intended so to do, but had deceived himself.  He had not absolutely hoped that his friend would say, “Come among us, and be one of us; take her, and be my brother.”  But yet there came upon his heart a black load of disappointment, in that the words which were said were the exact opposite of these.  Graham had spoken of himself as unfit to match with Madeline Staveley, and Madeline Staveley’s brother had taken him at his word.  The question which Augustus asked himself was this ­Was it, or was it not practicable that Graham should remain there without danger of intercourse with his sister?  To Felix the question came in a very different shape.  After having spoken as he had spoken ­might he be allowed to remain there, enjoying such intercourse, or might he not?  That was the question to which he had unconsciously demanded an answer; ­and unconsciously he had still hoped that the question might be answered in his favour.  He had so hoped, although he was burdened with Mary Snow, and although he had spoken of his engagement with that lady in so rigid a spirit of self-martyrdom.  But the question had been answered against him.  The offer of a further asylum in the seclusion of that bedroom had been made to him by his friend with a sort of proviso that it would not be well that he should go further than the bedroom, and his inner feelings at once grated against each other, making him wretched and almost angry.

“Thank you, no; I understand how kind you are, but I will not do that.  I will write up to-night, and shall certainly start to-morrow.”

“My dear fellow ­”

“I should get into a fever, if I were to remain in this house after what I have told you.  I could not endure to see you, or your mother, or Baker, or Marian, or any one else.  Don’t talk about it.  Indeed, you ought to feel that it is not possible.  I have made a confounded ass of myself, and the sooner I get away the better.  I say ­perhaps you would not be angry if I was to ask you to let me sleep for an hour or so now.  After that I’ll get up and write my letters.”

He was very sore.  He knew that he was sick at heart, and ill at ease, and cross with his friend; and knew also that he was unreasonable in being so.  Staveley’s words and manner had been full of kindness.  Graham was aware of this, and was therefore the more irritated with himself.  But this did not prevent his being angry and cross with his friend.

“Graham,” said the other, “I see clearly enough that I have annoyed you.”

“Not in the least.  A man falls into the mud, and then calls to another man to come and see him.  The man in the mud of course is not comfortable.”

“But you have called to me, and I have not been able to help you.”

“I did not suppose you would, so there has been no disappointment.  Indeed, there was no possibility for help.  I shall follow out the line of life which I have long since chalked out for myself, and I do not expect that I shall be more wretched than other poor devils around me.  As far as my idea goes, it all makes very little difference.  Now leave me; there’s a good fellow.”

“Dear old fellow, I would give my right hand if it would make you happy!”

“But it won’t.  Your right hand will make somebody else happy, I hope.”

“I’ll come up to you again before dinner.”

“Very well.  And, Staveley, what we have now said cannot be forgotten between us; but when we next meet, and ever after, let it be as though it were forgotten.”  Then he settled himself down on the bed, and Augustus left the room.

It will not be supposed that Graham did go to sleep, or that he had any thought of doing so.  When he was alone those words of his friend rang over and over again in his ears, “No girl ought to be out of your reach.”  Why should Madeline Staveley be out of his reach, simply because she was his friend’s sister?  He had been made welcome to that house, and therefore he was bound to do nothing unhandsome by the family.  But then he was bound by other laws, equally clear, to do nothing unhandsome by any other family ­or by any other lady.  If there was anything in Staveley’s words, they applied as strongly to Staveley’s sister as to any other girl.  And why should not he, a lawyer, marry a lawyer’s daughter?  Sophia Furnival, with her hatful of money, would not be considered too high for him; and in what respect was Madeline Staveley above Sophia Furnival?  That the one was immeasurably above the other in all those respects which in his estimation tended towards female perfection, he knew to be true enough; but the fruit which he had been forbidden to gather hung no higher on the social tree than that other fruit which he had been specially invited to pluck and garner.

And then Graham was not a man to think any fruit too high for him.  He had no overweening idea of his own deserts, either socially or professionally, nor had he taught himself to expect great things from his own genius; but he had that audacity of spirit which bids a man hope to compass that which he wishes to compass, ­that audacity which is both the father and mother of success, ­that audacity which seldom exists without the inner capability on which it ought to rest.

But then there was Mary Snow!  Augustus Staveley thought but little of Mary Snow.  According to his theory of his friend’s future life, Mary Snow might be laid aside without much difficulty.  If this were so, why should not Madeline be within his reach?  But then was it so?  Had he not betrothed himself to Mary Snow in the presence of the girl’s father, with every solemnity and assurance, in a manner fixed beyond that of all other betrothals?  Alas, yes; and for this reason it was right that he should hurry away from Noningsby.

Then he thought of Mary’s letter, and of Mrs. Thomas’s letter.  What was it that had been done?  Mary had written as though she had been charged with some childish offence; but Mrs. Thomas talked solemnly of acquitting her own conscience.  What could have happened that had touched Mrs. Thomas in the conscience?

But his thoughts soon ran away from the little house at Peckham, and settled themselves again at Noningsby.  Should he hear more of Madeline’s footsteps? ­and if not, why should they have been banished from the corridor?  Should he hear her voice again at the door, ­and if not, why should it have been hushed?  There is a silence which may be more eloquent than the sounds which it follows.  Had no one in that house guessed the feelings in his bosom, she would have walked along the corridor as usual, and spoken a word with her sweet voice in answer to his word.  He felt sure that this would be so no more; but who had stopped it, and why should such sounds be no more heard?

At last he did go to sleep, not in pursuance of any plan formed for doing so; for had he been asked he would have said that sleep was impossible for him.  But he did go to sleep, and when he awoke it was dark.  He had intended to have got up and dressed on that afternoon, or to have gone through such ceremony of dressing as was possible for him, ­in preparation of his next day’s exercise; and now he rose up in his bed with a start, angry with himself in having allowed the time to pass by him.

“Lord love you, Mr. Graham, why how you have slept!” said Mrs. Baker.  “If I haven’t just sent your dinner down again to keep hot.  Such a beautiful pheasant, and the bread sauce’ll be lumpy now, for all the world like pap.”

“Never mind the bread sauce, Mrs. Baker; ­the pheasant’s the thing.”

“And her ladyship’s been here, Mr. Graham, only she wouldn’t have you woke.  She won’t hear of your being moved to-morrow, nor yet won’t the judge.  There was a rumpus down stairs when Mr. Augustus as much as mentioned it.  I know one who ­”

“You know one who ­you were saying?”

“Never mind. ­It ain’t one more than another, but it’s all.  You ain’t to leave this to-morrow, so you may just give it over.  And indeed your things is all at the wash, so you can’t; ­and now I’ll go down for the pheasant.”

Felix still declared very positively that he should go, but his doing so did not shake Mrs. Baker.  The letter-bag he knew did not leave till eight, and as yet it was not much past five.  He would see Staveley again after his dinner, and then he would write.

When Augustus left the room in the middle of the day he encountered Madeline wandering about the house.  In these days she did wander about the house, as though there were something always to be done in some place apart from that in which she then was.  And yet the things which she did were but few.  She neither worked nor read, and as for household duties, her share in them was confined almost entirely to the morning and evening teapot.

“It isn’t true that he’s to go to-morrow morning, Augustus, is it?” said she.

“Who, Graham?  Well; he says that he will.  He is very anxious to get to London; and no doubt he finds it stupid enough lying there and doing nothing.”

“But he can do as much there as he can lying by himself in his own chambers, where I don’t suppose he would have anybody to look after him.  He thinks he’s a trouble and all that, and therefore he wants to go.  But you know mamma doesn’t mind about trouble of that kind; and what should we think of it afterwards if anything bad was to happen to your friend because we allowed him to leave the house before he was in a fit state to be moved?  Of course Mr. Pottinger says so ­” Mr. Pottinger was the doctor.  “Of course Mr. Pottinger says so, because he thinks he has been so long here, and he doesn’t understand.”

“But Mr. Pottinger would like to keep a patient.”

“Oh no; he’s not at all that sort of man.  He’d think of mamma, ­the trouble I mean of having a stranger in the house.  But you know mamma would think nothing of that, especially for such an intimate friend of yours.”

Augustus turned slightly round so as to look more fully into his sister’s face, and he saw that a tear was gathered in the corner of her eye.  She perceived his glance and partly shrank under it, but she soon recovered herself and answered it.  “I know what you mean,” she said, “and if you choose to think so, I can’t help it.  But it is horrible ­horrible ­” and then she stopped herself, finding that a little sob would become audible if she trusted herself to further words.

“You know what I mean, Mad?” he said, putting his arm affectionately round her waist.  “And what is it that I mean?  Come; you and I never have any secrets; ­you always say so when you want to get at mine.  Tell me what it is that I mean.”

“I haven’t got any secret.”

“But what did I mean?”

“You looked at me, because I don’t want you to let them send Mr. Graham away.  If it was old Mr. Furnival I shouldn’t like them to turn him out of this house when he was in such a state as that.”

“Poor Mr. Furnival; no; I think he would bear it worse than Felix.”

“Then why should he go?  And why ­should you look at me in that way?”

“Did I look at you, Mad?  Well, I believe I did.  We are to have no secrets; are we?”

“No,” said she.  But she did not say it in the same eager voice with which hitherto she had declared that they would always tell each other everything.

“Felix Graham is my friend,” said he, “my special friend; and I hope you will always like my friends.  But ­”

“Well?” she said.

“You know what I mean, Mad”

“Yes,” she said.

“That is all, dearest.”  And then she knew that he also had cautioned her not to fall in love with Felix Graham, and she felt angry with him for the caution.  “Why ­why ­why ?” But she hardly knew as yet how to frame the question which she desired to ask herself.