"I have not anywhere else to go to. I don't suppose the fever would come near me. In all French schools there is, you know, an infirmary apart." "Then your motive is to quit Chandos. Why?" I did not speak. Only hung my head. "Is it because you find it dull? Are you so unhappy in it?" "It is not dull to me; only at moments. But I ought to leave it, because—because the longer I stay, the worse the going away will be." But that I was confused and miserable, I should not have told him anything so near the truth. The words slipped from me. There was no reply, and I looked up to find his eyes fixed earnestly upon mine. "Only think, sir, for yourself," I stammered. "I am but a governess, accustomed to be at work from morning until night. After this life of ease and idleness, how shall I be able to reconcile myself to labour again?" "It seems to me that you ought to welcome this interval as a rest. You know best about that, of course. But, whether or not, there is no help for it. Do you think my mother would suffer you to go to the fever?" "I don't know," I answered, with a catching sob. "Yes, I think you do know. _I_ should not." "You are too kind to me, Mr. Chandos." "Am I? Will you repay it by giving me some tea? I am going up to my mother, and shall expect it ready when I come down. Put out, and cool, mind, ready to drink. I am as thirsty as a fish." I ran to the bell; he meant to forestal me, and his hand fell on mine as it touched the handle. He kept his there while he spoke. "Can you not be happy at Chandos a little longer?" "Oh, sir, yes. But it will only make the leaving worse when it comes." "Well, that lies in the future." Yes, it did lie in it. And in the throbbing bliss his presence brought, I was content to let it lie. Parting could not be worse in the future than it would be now. The tea had time to get cold, instead of cool, for he stayed a long while in the west wing. He seemed very tired; did not talk much, and said good-night early. It must have been getting on for eleven o'clock the next morning. Mr. Chandos had been asking me to sew a button on his glove. "They are always coming off," he cried, as he watched my fingers. "My belief is, they are just pitched on to the gloves, and left there. I have heard Harriet say the same; she sews them on in general." "Why did you not give her this one?" I had been laughing, and was in high spirits; and until the words were out, it did not strike me that it was not quite the right thing for me to say, even in joke. "Because I best like you to do it." "There it is, sir. Are there any more?" If there were, he had no time to give them me. A sharp decisive knock at the room door, and Mrs. Penn came in, looking pale and angry. She has been coming to a rupture with Mrs. Chandos, thought I. But I was wrong.