Michael was uneasy and unhappy. At last, unable to endure his suspense any longer, he leaned over to Mrs. Johnson, and asked, in a cautious undertone— ‘Have not Otho Askam and Miss Wynter come?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied, in the same tone, and with a significant look. ‘They have both gone into the room where the performers wait. Some people think he is going to volunteer a song.’ Michael nodded, as if satisfied with the explanation. He could not help giving a glance towards Eleanor, and he saw that the look of unease on her countenance had deepened. She looked constrained and uneasy. Just at that moment, Gilbert bent over her and said something to her, with a smile, and as he spoke to her, he raised his eyes, and encountered those of Michael. Michael felt, he knew not what, as he met that glance. Was it anger, or grief, or pain that clutched him? It was a hot and burning feeling, which seemed to surge up within him. He did not know—yet—what it was, but he felt as if he must at all risks avoid meeting Gilbert’s eyes again. He had never experienced pain like this in any meeting with Magdalen, after their separation. He had thought that he had put Gilbert away from him altogether; that he had become no more to him than Magdalen, or than the merest stranger on the road. This terrible emotional disturbance showed him that he had been wrong. But how? What did it import? The next thing he saw, just as the closing notes of the glee were sounding, was Roger Camm, who walked quickly up the room, and went into the waiting-room, spoken of by Mrs. Johnson. Then the music ceased; the singers received their meed of applause and left the stage, and then there was a little pause, which was, of course, employed as such pauses usually are, in a general uprising, talking, questioning, and laughing. It was wearisome to Michael, who, while anxious above all things to avoid looking at Gilbert again, could still not prevent his eyes from being drawn in Eleanor’s direction. She recognised and greeted him gravely, but, as he keenly felt, not indifferently. She was still, as he could not but see, practically alone with Gilbert, as neither Otho nor Magdalen made their appearance, and Mrs. Parker strayed away to converse with her friends. Then he saw some neighbours—some of those ‘charity blanket Blundell girls,’ as Otho gracefully called them, and poor Sir Thomas Winthrop (glaring distrustfully at Gilbert, who stood erect and half-smiling, all the while), come and talk to her, and Michael did not move from his place, but sat still, listening vaguely to Effie’s prattle, and feeling again and again the same strange, strong and painful feeling shake him from head to foot. Then people began to go back to their places. The noise and bustle settled down, the pause was over. The next thing was a round of applause, and Michael, looking up, saw that Roger Camm had appeared upon the platform, and was going to the piano with some music in his hand. It was Michael’s