‘Then I went on with the book I was reading to her,’ said May, in repeating the conversation to me; ‘but I don’t think she listened. At least her eyes were twinkling all the time, though it was quite a serious book, and in the middle of one very grave passage she laughed aloud. I stopped in surprise, and then she asked me if I was sure that I had described the seal correctly. I assured her that I had given your description of it word for word, at which she laughed again, and said, “Poor George.” I wonder if she meant Mr George Bowden; but I don’t see what he had to do with the matter. Then she repeated her warning about breaking seals, and bade me be sure to convey it to you.’ ‘It is very considerate of Mrs Bowden,’ I said in some bewilderment; ‘but I cannot imagine why she should be so much interested in the matter. Is she at all—queer?’ ‘She is eccentric, certainly; but not in the least mad, if that is what you mean. She has heart-disease, I believe; but her mind is all right, indeed particularly acute.’ ‘Why, it’s simple enough,’ interposed Gerald. ‘Mrs Bowden hasn’t an amusement in the world except teasing her relatives, and she gets tired of that sometimes. But now chance informs her of a curious accident; and the little possibility of mystery and romance about it excites her, just because her own life happens to be free from either. It’s as good as a novel to her at present; but if the _dénouement_ doesn’t come on quickly enough, she’ll lose interest in the matter, and soon forget all about it. She cares merely for the sensation.’ But Mrs Bowden’s interest in the unclaimed packet and in its unwilling possessor was curiously deep and persistent. ‘She asks far more questions about you than about Gerald,’ said May to me one fortunate half-hour when her brother had left me to be her escort to church. (Her employer managed very frequently to dispense with her attendance on Sundays, and thus made the day one of tenfold happiness to us.) ‘Then I hope you strain your conscience, and speak well of me in your replies?’ ‘I say just what I think of you,’ she answered very demurely. ‘And that is——?’ I asked. ‘That you are Gerald’s friend.’ ‘Is that all?’ ‘Is it not enough?’ ‘No—not nearly enough. Do you not like me for my own sake as well as for Gerald’s? It isn’t for his sake that I love you, May, and I shall not be content till you care for me for myself, independently of Gerald’s friendship.’ ‘You want a great deal, Mr Langham,’ she said, keeping her eyes turned away from me. ‘Do I want too much—more than you can give me?’—Silence for a few moments.—‘Answer me, May. I must know the truth, whether it is good or bad. Do I ask for more than you can give me?’ Another pause, a short one; then came the sweetest whisper I had ever heard: ‘No;’ and I am afraid the vicar of St Barnabas had two very inattentive listeners that evening.