‘So be it,’ said Maurice, closing the discussion, with the conviction that there was some hidden link between the gipsy and the Squire of Penwyn; some influence stronger than philanthropy which secured the wanderer’s home. The fact that it should be so, that there should be some secret alliance between the woman who had foretold James Penwyn’s death and the man who had been so large a gainer by that early death, impressed him strangely. He was thoughtful and silent throughout the homeward drive; so thoughtful and so silent as to arouse Madge Penwyn’s curiosity. ‘I can hardly compliment you upon being the most amusing of companions, Mr. Clissold,’ she said, with a forced smile, as they approached the Manor House. ‘There was a time when your conversation used to be amusing enough to enliven the dullest drive, but to-day you have been the image of gloom.’ ‘Black care sits behind us all, at odd times, Mrs. Penwyn,’ he answered, gravely. ‘Be assured I must have cause for serious thought when the charm of your presence does not put me in spirits.’ ‘Thanks for the compliment; but you talk rather too much like a Greek oracle,’ retorted Madge, lightly, but with an uneasy look which did not escape Maurice’s observation. ‘There is a cloud hanging over this house,’ he said to himself. ‘A trouble in which husband and wife share. But it can be no such dark secret as Justina’s suspicions point to, or Mrs. Penwyn would know nothing about it. No husband would reveal such guilt as _that_ to his wife.’ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER V ‘FOR THOU WERT STILL THE POOR MAN’S STAY.’ Dinner at Penwyn Manor went off gaily enough. Lady Cheshunt, inspirited by various light wines, a good deal of Maraschino in the ice pudding, and a glass of Curaçao as a corrective afterwards, was a host in herself, and talked loud enough, fast enough, recklessly enough, to keep the dullest dinner party going. Mr. Penwyn was always an excellent host, starting fresh subjects of conversation with such admirable tact that no one knew who changed the current of ideas when interest was just beginning to flag—never taking the lion’s share of the talk, or drifting into monologue—listening to every one—encouraging the timid—sustaining the weak—and proving himself a living encycloæpdia whenever dates, names, or facts were wanted. The gentlemen left the dining-room about ten minutes after the ladies had quitted it, to the delight of Sir Lewis Dallas, and the secret disgust of Mr. Tresillian, who liked to prose about stable and kennel for an hour or so over his claret.