The chief one was that he himself had advised Eleanor, so to speak, to make a friend of Gilbert—to confide her troubles to him, and ask his advice. What had he been dreaming of? Had he been fool enough to identify her feelings with his own, and be confident that she would have no intercourse with Gilbert beyond what was absolutely necessary? What earthly right or reason had he had for assuming such a thing? A ludicrous feeling of injured vanity came across him as, in a kind of parenthesis, he recollected Gilbert’s appearance; the high finish and perfection of every appointment, from his hat to his boots, and then contrasted with it all his own rather rough-and-ready accoutrements—the clothing and paraphernalia of the poor country doctor who must be out at all hours and in all weather, no matter what betide. A deep, dark flush crossed Michael’s face. It was the first time such a contrast had ever crossed his mind. Now he thought, ‘What does it matter how he came by it all? She will not inquire into that, and he is the sort of man she has been accustomed to. And we always like what we are accustomed to, no matter how we may pretend to relish a change.’ His poverty and want of power to make the appearance of other young men, no better born nor bred than himself, galled him, for the very first time, deep in his heart of hearts. Then other considerations came rushing into his mind. She had looked grave, it was true; but what of that? Hers might be one of those deep natures to which happiness gives a grave expression. And, grave or not, she had been riding by Gilbert’s side; she had apparently been conversing with him on friendly terms; there had been no expression of displeasure or dislike upon her face.