The tea waited on the table when he came down again. It seems very monotonous, I feel sure, to be alluding so continually to the meals, but you see they were the chief times when I was alone with Mr. Chandos; so I can only crave pardon. Mr. Chandos's countenance wore a sad and gloomy look: but that was nothing unusual after his visits to the west wing. I wondered very much that he did not have the shutters closed after what took place the previous night; but there they were open, and nothing between the room and the window but the thin lace curtains. The oak-brown silk curtains, with their golden flowers, were at the extreme corners of the windows, not made to draw. Long afterwards I found that he had the shutters left open because I was there. As the habit had been to leave them open previously, he did not choose to alter it now: people inclined to be censorious, might have remarked upon it. That aspect of the affair never occurred to me. "What led to the scene with that man to-day?" he abruptly asked, after drinking his cup of tea in silence. "How came you to meet him?" I briefly explained. Mentioning also that I had seen Mrs. Penn with him, and what she said to me of his inquiries. And I told him of Mr. Edwin Barley's questions to me about the visit of the police-officers. "If Mrs. Penn is to make an acquaintance of Mr. Edwin Barley, she cannot remain at Chandos," he coldly remarked. "Have you finished tea? Then it shall go away." He rose to ring the bell, did not resume his seat again, but stood with his back to the fire, and watched the servants take the things away. I got my work about as usual. "Now then, Anne, I claim your promise. What are you to Edwin Barley? and what is he to you?" A moment's pause. But I had made my mind up to tell him all, and would not flinch now the moment had come. Putting down the work, I sat with my hands on my lap. "Did you know that there was once a Mrs. Edwin Barley?" "Unfortunately, I had too good cause to know it." I thought the answer a strange one, but went on. "She was a Carew. Miss Selina Carew, of Keppe-Carew." "I know she was." "And my aunt." "Your aunt!" he repeated, looking at me strangely. "Why, whose daughter are you?" "My father was Colonel Hereford. A brave officer and gentleman." "Thomas Hereford? Of the —th?" "Yes." "And your mother?" "My mother was Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew. She was a good deal older than Selina. They were sisters." The information appeared to surprise him beyond expression. He sat down in a chair in front of me, his eyes fixed on my face with an earnest gaze. "The daughter of Colonel Hereford and of Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew! And we have been thinking of you as only a governess! Je vous en fais mes compliments empressés, Miss Hereford! You are of better family than ours." "That does me no good. I have still to be a governess." "Does it not, young lady? Well—about Mrs. Edwin Barley. Did you see much of her?"