‘That will be as I choose,’ she retorted, but her lips had grown thin. Otho was banging out of the room, when Gilbert Langstroth, coming in, caught hold of his arm. ‘Now then, Otho, what is the matter?’ ‘Don’t hold me!’ said Otho, looking wrathfully at him. ‘I’m in a bad temper, and you had best let me alone.’ With which he left them, and Gilbert came forward, looking a little seriously at both the young women. ‘Miss Wynter,’ exclaimed Eleanor, ‘what can have happened, and what is to be done?’ ‘Oh,’ said Magdalen, ‘pray don’t heed him. He will be all right again before the evening is over.’ Eleanor felt great doubt as to the correctness of that theory, and was annoyed, too, to hear Otho spoken of as if he had been a petted child, who must be humoured, though indeed, as she had to admit to herself, his behaviour gave only too good ground for such treatment. And despite Magdalen’s lofty words, she seemed not able to cast off the constraint left by the late disagreeable scene; but, picking up the _Spectator_, opened it as wide as it would unfold, and seemed to read it. Eleanor felt her eyes turn involuntarily towards Gilbert; it was not that she wished to appeal to him, but she was intensely conscious that he alone was capable of giving counsel (if counsel were to be had) in such a situation, and she looked at him, just as one would send for the nearest doctor, if one were attacked by some strange and inexplicable illness. She found his eyes also fixed upon hers, attentively, carefully, and admiringly. She felt with a cold thrill of certainty that what she had suspected and feared was true, and he was now thinking of her, and not of either Magdalen or Otho. He handed her a chair, and seated himself beside her. His very first words only heightened her uneasiness. ‘I hope you did not think me too officious in sending for the violets,’ he said in a low voice. Magdalen lowered her paper, and gave him a look, which he received and returned; and, with a dark expression on her face, she resumed her ostensible occupation. Perhaps Gilbert knew all about what had passed, and was mocking her futile efforts to appear unconcerned. Magdalen had always felt that Gilbert’s sin and hers had had such very unequally meted rewards. He had been so successful after his sin, and she had failed so wretchedly and so tantalisingly after hers. ‘Officious—no. They are beautiful flowers,’ said Eleanor, uneasily. ‘It was very kind to take so much trouble; for, after all, it was only a whim of mine.’ ‘You have so few whims, that when one is vouchsafed a hint of one, one is only too glad to gratify it.’ ‘Oh, I hope I am not so exacting as to expect such gratifications.... I—will Otho—what is Otho doing just now, do you think?’ she added, in a still lower voice, unable to shake off the disagreeable impression she had derived from his look and words.