Thinking over these things, she now walked with Effie towards the Dower House. The old square, when they reached it, looked very pleasant that sunny afternoon; bright sunshine lighting up all the sober, solid old houses, which stood reposefully, as if secure for ever of peace and plenty; their quiet closed doors and shining window panes revealing nothing of the emotions which might be stirring those who inhabited them. The trees on either side the square had begun to show a first tinge of green, like the rest of nature. Not a soul stirred in the afternoon quietness; only Michael’s great dog, Pluto, who lay basking on the flags outside the Red Gables, looked and blinked at them lazily as they passed, and slightly moved the tip of his tail in reply to their greeting. Next door but one was the Dower House—a pleasant old stone building, gray, with a door in the middle, and two windows on either side; upstairs five windows, and a third story with five windows more. It was, in fact, a large, substantial stone house, very suitable as the country residence of a single woman of some means and position. It stood on the sunny side of the square, and like nearly all the houses in it, its gardens and its pleasantest rooms lay to the back. It was furnished with old-fashioned furniture, and kept in order by an old gardener and his wife, who lived there. Eleanor liked it. She liked the windows looking into the broad open street. Such a prospect seemed to bring her nearer to humanity, and to the wholesome everyday life of her fellow-creatures. The recollection of Thorsgarth, rising stately from its basement of velvet sward, rendered dark by the towering trees which surrounded it,—of the terraces sloping to the river; the flights of steps, the discoloured marble fauns and nymphs—this recollection came over her, and made her feel dreary. She felt as if she had lived in it all for years, and had no joy in any one of them. In her own mind she almost resolved to go to this other house, but she wished to wait for Otho’s return, and explain it all to him—if ever he should return; if only he would return! Three days later, without letter and without warning, he came home, late in the evening, having no apologies to make, and very few remarks concerning his long absence and silence. He sat for an hour or two with his sister, and she found something in his looks and aspect which did not tend to allay whatever anxiety she might have felt about him. The ruddy brown of his skin had grown sallow and dark, and his cheeks were hollow. There was a haggard look about him, and the traces, unmistakably to be read, that he had been living hard and fast. His eyes had sunk; he was not an encouraging spectacle, and there was an uneasy restlessness about him which fretted her. She tried to talk about commonplace things.