“In the case of my--mistress, my friend, my all but mother,” said young Gordon, with some emotion, “the deceit is all her own. I have said all I could say, and so have her friends. We have proved to her that it could not be I, everything has been put before her; and if she determines, after all that, that I am the man, what can I do? I return her affection for affection cordially, for who was ever so good to any one as she is to me? And I serve her as her son might do. I am of use to her actually, though you may not think it. And why should I try to wound her heart, by reasserting that I am not what she thinks, and that she is deceived? I do my best to satisfy, not to deceive her. Therefore, do not say it; I am no lie.” “All very well and very plausible,” said the doctor, “but in no wise altering my opinion. And, Miss Dora, what have you got to say?” “I say nothing,” said Dora; “there is no deceit at all. If you only knew how particular I am! Father’s income suffices for himself; he is not in debt to any one. He has a good income--a very good income--four hundred a year, enough for any single man. Don’t you think so? I have gone over it a great many times, and I am sure he does not spend more than that--not so much; the calculation is all on paper. Do you remember teaching me to do accounts long ago? I am very good at it now. Father is not bound to keep me, when there are other people who will keep on sending me money: and he has quite enough--too much for himself; then where is the deceit, or shame either? My conscience is quite clear.” “You are two special pleaders,” the doctor said; “you are too many for me when you are together. I’ll get you apart, and convince you of your sin. And what,” he cried suddenly, taking them by surprise, “my fine young sir and madam, would happen if either one or other of you took it into your heads to marry? That is what I should like to know.” They looked at each other for a moment as it were in a flash of crimson light, which seemed to fly instantaneously from one to another. They looked first at him, and then exchanged one lightning glance, and then each turned a little aside on either side of the doctor. Was it to hide that something which was nothing, that spontaneous, involuntary momentary interchange of looks, from his curious eyes? Dr. Roland was struck as by that harmless lightning. He, the expert, had forgotten what contagion there might be in the air. They were both tall, both fair, two slim figures in their youthful grace, embodiments of all that was hopeful, strong, and lifelike. The doctor had not taken into consideration certain effects known to all men which are not in the books. “Whew-ew!” he breathed in a long whistle of astonishment, and said no more. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's A House in Bloomsbury, by Margaret Oliphant