‘“Poor Otho,” as you call him, is my oldest friend; I know him better than any one else does, except perhaps the lady we have been speaking of, whose acquaintance with him dates from the very same time. You laughed just now—you could not help it. Does not your common sense now explain to you that it is much better to take men as they are, and provide them with the best that circumstances will allow, instead of wanting to insist on their having for mate an ideal which does not suit, and which they would hate if they had to live with it? That is my view of the case.’ ‘Very well,’ said she, resignedly. ‘Go on.’ ‘I was about to observe that though Otho certainly appears disposed just now to kick over the traces altogether, and not listen to anything that any one has to say to him, yet I think I may still say, I have more influence over him than any one else has. But upon my soul, I do not know how long it may last. He has got some notion into his head which, for a wonder, he has not confided to me, and I cannot answer for the freaks which it may inspire him to play. I wonder if you will think me impertinent for asking, did you know much about Otho and his character before you came to live here?’ ‘No—at least, my uncle, Mr. Stanley, used to say he was afraid Otho was rather fast, and told me not to let him bet. I think,’ added Eleanor, with rather a sad smile, ‘that if we had known him better, we should not have wasted our words in that way.’ ‘I think something still more probable is, that you would not have wasted your time in coming here.’ ‘I did not choose to come here. It so fell out that this was the right place for me to come to.’ ‘You had nowhere else to go?’ ‘Practically nowhere. My aunt died, and my uncle’s health had so given way that he and Paul—my cousin, and their only child—have gone to travel together for an indefinite time. Where should I have thought of coming to but to my _home_?’ She raised her head, and looked at him both proudly and sadly. Gilbert’s eyes fell—not in confusion, but reflectively. ‘True,’ he admitted, after a moment. ‘And you intend to remain here?’ ‘Certainly I do. Why should I go?’ ‘Oh, there are many reasons. It is not a pleasant house for you to be in.’ Eleanor felt as if Otho’s conduct were being commented upon, and she herself tutored by some one who was much more master of the situation than she was. She did not exactly like it, but she was powerless to resent it; she did not quite know whether she wished even to resent it. ‘It is a dreary house,’ said she at length. ‘It is depressing to me, too. But I don’t know that one may always leave a place just because it happens not to be pleasant.’ ‘Ah! You know Otho is going away when I do?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I will answer for it that you will not see much more of him till after the Derby Day, and perhaps not then. Don’t you think it would be advisable for you to have a change, too?’