moment had come at which they must obey the fiat of society, and meet to part. He walked into the room, his heart thumping with a muffled sound against his bosom--not like the heart-beats of young emotion--heavier, less rapid, painful throbs. She was seated in her usual place by the fire, a little table beside her with a lamp upon it, and some books. She had her knitting in her hand. She did not rise to receive him, but raised her eyes in all the old friendly sweetness, and held out her hand. She was agitated too, but she had more command over herself. There are cases in which a man may, and a woman must not, show emotion. ‘Well?’ she said, in a voice with a falter in it, taking no notice of his absence, or of any reason why they should not meet. ‘Well?’ half a question, half a salutation, betraying only in its brevity that she was not sufficiently at her ease for many words. He went up and stood before her, putting out his hands to the fire with that want of warmth which all unhappy people feel. He could not smile or take no notice as she tried to do. ‘I have come to ask you what is the meaning of this?’ he said; ‘and whether there is no resource. If it must be----’ ‘The meaning of--what?’ she said, faltering; then again a pause: ‘I have nothing to do with it, Mr. Beresford; I do not understand it. These people speak a strange language.’ ‘Don’t they?’ he cried; ‘a vile language, made for other ears than yours. Are we to be ruled by it, you and I, to whom it is a jargon of the lower world?’ She did not make any answer; her fingers trembled over her knitting, but she went on with it. That he should speak so, gave her a little consolation; but she knew very well, as perhaps he also knew, that there was nothing for it but to yield ‘What harm can I do you?’ he said, with a kind of aimless argument. ‘I am not a man to harm people by the mere sight of me, am I? I am not new and untried, like a stranger whom people might be doubtful of. All my antecedents are known. What harm can I do you? or the boys--perhaps they think I will harm the boys.’ ‘Oh, do not talk so,’ she said; ‘you know no one thinks of harm in you. It is because everything that is unusual must be wrong; because--but why should we discuss it, when there is no reason in it?’ ‘Why should we obey it, when there is no reason in it?’ he said. ‘Alas! we cannot help ourselves now; when a thing is said, it cannot be unsaid. After this we could not be the same. We should remember, and be conscious.’ ‘Of what?’ ‘Oh, of--nothing, except what has been said. Don’t be angry with me. I have so many things to think of--the boys first of all; there must be no talking for them to hear. Don’t you think,’ she said, with tears in her eyes, which glistened and betrayed themselves, yet with an appealing smile, ‘that least said is soonest mended? To discuss it all is impossible. If you could come--now and then--as other people come.’