"Why shouldn't Mr Ibbetson help us?" said Bice in a low voice. Her sister cried out in astonishment, but the girl persisted. "There are kind people in the world," she said, as her eyes brightened. "If you or I saw anyone in trouble we should do what we could; and he is a man, he knows about England and this world into which poor Clive has tumbled--he might advise us." "Not better than Oliver!" exclaimed Kitty, amazed. "Oh, I'm tired of Oliver," cried Bice with petulant impatience. Her heart was rising up in revolt against its fate till it burned within her. She was angry with Clive, with Oliver, with Kitty, who could only praise him; most of all with herself, the self which had grown all of a sudden discontented, frightened, and indignant. How was it that the change had come, if it was a change and not rather an awakening? How was it that life had in a few hours blossomed into a hundred possibilities? She had thought of Oliver Trent before with a sort of dull satisfaction, as a means of helping Clive and of averting sorrow from those she loved; and as he had skilfully managed to make himself necessary to her, her feelings towards him were passive. But this calm was at an end. All that evening she had been comparing, watching, reflecting; a light seemed suddenly to have been turned upon him; she saw things written in his features which she had never discovered before--some, very likely, which were not there at all. "His eyes are close together, and there is a broad piece of face beyond them--that is not good, I know," said the critic, "and his face is red and hard." And all the time, joined with this revolt, some strong new hope seemed to have leapt into her heart, uncalled for and inexplicable. "There are kind people in the world," she had said to Kitty, but what had brought her the sudden conviction? Is it not pathetic sometimes to see how little will win a heart, and yet how much fails to touch it? We take some trifling trouble, and, lo, an affection is laid at our feet which years cannot change or parting cool. And then, again, we give our life blood, and the gift is scorned. Jack had felt attracted and touched, and had looked and spoken as he felt-- kindly, but it was no more than the commonest kindness, though to her it seemed altogether special and delightful.