He awaited her next words with an eagerness and anxiety which surprised himself, and when no words came, he was again surprised at the feeling of chill regret which came over him. For Eleanor made no answer whatever to his answer to her question. The vibrating eagerness of her voice, of the voice with which she had asked if Otho were a gambler, was stilled. In the darkness, which was now deep, they rode on in drear, unbroken silence. What she felt, what she thought, she did not betray. She was not made of the stuff that wails and laments over the discovery that life is not a track of smooth grass, warmed by unclouded sunshine. ‘Well,’ said Michael to himself, as this silence grew more and more oppressive to him; ‘she asked the question. I had to speak the truth. She must have learnt it sooner or later. I can’t imagine how it is she has not found it out already....’ Then an intense, eager wish. ‘If she would only speak! How she must hate me! Yes, she must hate me for telling her that. How can she help? I expect she is wishing now that she had never seen me. It’s a pity for her that she should have come up here, to be thrown into the midst of such doings. Otho for her brother, Magdalen for her friend, and my brother—well, for _l’ami de la maison_! A nice company for her to be in.... And, after all, what is it to me? Only it’s a piece of cursed ill-luck that I should have got mixed up with her at all.... I wish she would speak.’ But Eleanor did not speak for what seemed a very long time, except when Michael, who felt the silence absolutely unbearable, said to her once, in a curt tone, to cover his unhappiness, ‘Don’t you think we had better trot along this road? You will get cold if we go too slowly.’ To which she replied in a measured voice, ‘Yes, no doubt,’ and at once put her horse into a trot, but made no further remark. This state of things continued until, having made considerable progress, they were going up the hill towards the old bridge, and had about twenty minutes more of a ride before them. Just as they had reached the bridge and got into the light, they met Roger Camm striding out of the town. He gazed with visible astonishment at Michael and his companion, raised his hat, and passed on. Then Eleanor spoke, quite quietly and composedly. ‘Is not that your friend, Mr. Camm?’ ‘Yes,’ said Michael, with a profound sense of relief. ‘But, if I may ask, how do you know he is my friend, and what do you know of him?’ ‘I heard about him when Otho took me to see Miss Wynter. And Miss Dixon was there too——’ ‘When was that?’ asked Michael. ‘Why, the day after I came to Thorsgarth. You were there when we called. Don’t you remember?’ ‘I remember that occasion perfectly; but it is a fortnight ago.’ ‘Well, I have never been since.’ Michael raised his eyebrows. She had never been since! ‘Miss Dixon came before we left,’ went on Eleanor. ‘She said Mr. Camm was going out to fetch her home. Miss Wynter told me you and he were great friends.’