Eleanor made no reply to this further explanation of Otho’s views. She felt disgusted—it was the only word for her condition. She felt as if she would like to make her opinion known to both Otho and Magdalen, upon this question of their conduct to Michael Langstroth. It was the first time in her life that she had been brought in contact with such doings as seemed to have been going on here. Long ago they had taken place, these ugly evil deeds of falsehood and injustice! Their effect upon the perpetrators did not seem to have been that of making them more urbane in manner, happy in disposition, or lofty in character. Poor Eleanor still felt very strong—felt as if she could cope with any fate that presented itself to her. But even now she did not feel so buoyant as before. The scenes she had that afternoon passed through struck deep root in her memory: Magdalen’s cold, unattractive beauty, her cynicism, and the fear, which she had not been able quite to conceal, lest she was going to lose her hold over Otho (what was that hold? Eleanor wondered); Otho, talking, self-assertive, abusive, and, as Eleanor felt, deep down in her heart—miserable; Michael Langstroth, with whom she had been struck on their first meeting, and who haunted her, now that she knew his history, with his dark face, grave and almost stern, his eyes, bent upon her and Magdalen with, it seemed to her, the same expression for both—one of cold, imperturbable politeness and perfect indifference; the little dressed-up doll, with her fifth-rate airs and graces;—the whole entertainment had repelled and disgusted her. She would not cultivate Magdalen’s acquaintance, if she were doomed not to have another friend in Bradstane. And as for Dr. Langstroth, was he Magdalen’s friend still? She had said so, but nothing in his manner or expression had confirmed it. ‘I wish I knew,’ Eleanor said to herself, as they stopped at their own hall-door. ‘I wonder he ever condescended to speak to her again. It’s the only thing about him that seems inexplicable,’ was her further reflection, as Otho lifted her from her horse. CHAPTER XVI A FRIENDSHIP EXPLAINED Michael, tired himself, threw himself on to his tired horse when he left Magdalen’s parlour, and rode down the drive and into the high-road. He had had a long and hard day, and there was weariness visible in the paleness of his face, which was a thinner and an older face than it had been. But there was a theme in his mind, occupying it to the exclusion of his weariness, and this it was which engrossed him as he rode towards Bradstane.