Michael could not help looking at her as she sat thus, having evidently almost forgotten his presence. In contemplating her he was vividly aware of her beauty, and of the noble order to which it belonged; but he was still more keenly alive to something else—to the deep sadness which overspread her whole countenance and attitude. He was sure, from her whole appearance, and from what his experienced eye knew to be her temperament, that she was well-formed for the enjoyment of pleasure. But not, it would seem, to the exclusion of other things. It was quite evident that since the discovery she had made with regard to Otho, she had not had much delight in existence, or even found much relief in looking forward to a better time. Michael could understand and appreciate this kind of disposition; in a woman, he had grown greatly to admire it. Eleanor, as she sat now, disappointed, puzzled, unhappy, seemingly wondering what she was to do for the best, appealed very strongly to the emotional side of his nature, which had been dormant for years now—ever since he had taken his life and career into his own hands again, after the great shock they had once sustained. But he was no longer a boy, or even a very impetuous man,—at least, not the man any more to let his impetuses run away with him. There was no possible justification for the questions which Eleanor had asked him. He was not going to answer them—was not going for one moment to enter into any discussion on those points. But while his reason told him how wrong she had been in asking the questions, his heart forgave her freely the indiscretion. She had asked him—because she felt she could trust him. He liked the bold frankness and unconventionality of the action. Magdalen had ever loved the strictest observance of outside form—unless there had been some advantage to be gained by disregarding it. At this moment Eleanor looked up, and met his eyes dwelling steadily on her face. She blushed deeply. ‘I have to beg your pardon,’ said she, ‘for having brought you here on such a fruitless errand. I might have known—I did know, in my inmost heart—that you could not, and would not answer those questions. But I felt so at sea in the matter. I had such a need of guidance.’ Michael rose, smiling slightly. ‘Do not apologise,’ said he; ‘we all do impetuous things sometimes. You, at least, were actuated by no bad motives.’ ‘No,’ she said, in a low voice, as she, too, rose. Then Michael, in his turn, gave way to a sudden impulse. ‘Because I cannot speak to you on these subjects,’ said he, ‘that is no reason why you should not ask some one else; it is no reason why you should not know what you wish to know. For my part, I think you are quite right in seeking to learn the truth on these matters.’ ‘But there is no one else,’ said Eleanor. ‘You and Miss Wynter are the only——’