“Ah,” said Bernard, “my remorse is all gone, and yet I think I love you about as much as ever! So you see how wrong you were not to tell me.” “The wrong to you I don’t care about. It is very true I might have told you for Mr. Wright’s sake. It would perhaps have made him look better. But as you never attacked him for deserting me, it seemed needless for me to defend him.” “I confess,” said Bernard, “I am quite at sea about Gordon’s look in the matter. Is he looking better now--or is he looking worse? You put it very well just now; I was attending to you, though you said I was not. If he hoped you would refuse him, with whom is his quarrel at present? And why was he so cool to me for months after we parted at Baden? If that was his state of mind, why should he accuse me of inconsistency?” “There is something in it, after all, that a woman can understand. I don’t know whether a man can. He hoped I would refuse him, and yet when I had done so he was vexed. After a while his vexation subsided, and he married poor Blanche; but, on learning to-day that I had accepted you, it flickered up again. I suppose that was natural enough; but it won’t be serious.” “What will not be serious, my dear?” asked Mrs. Vivian, who had come back to the drawing-room, and who, apparently, could not hear that the attribute in question was wanting in any direction, without some alarm. “Shall I tell mamma, Bernard?” said Angela. “Ah, my dear child, I hope it ‘s nothing that threatens your mutual happiness,” mamma murmured, with gentle earnestness. “Does it threaten our mutual happiness, Bernard?” the girl went on, smiling. “Let Mrs. Vivian decide whether we ought to let it make us miserable,” said Bernard. “Dear Mrs. Vivian, you are a casuist, and this is a nice case.” “Is it anything about poor Mr. Wright?” the elder lady inquired. “Why do you say ‘poor’ Mr. Wright?” asked Bernard. “Because I am sadly afraid he is not happy with Blanche.” “How did you discover that--without seeing them together?” “Well, perhaps you will think me very fanciful,” said Mrs. Vivian; “but it was by the way he looked at Angela. He has such an expressive face.” “He looked at me very kindly, mamma,” Angela observed. “He regularly stared, my daughter. In any one else I should have said it was rude. But his situation is so peculiar; and one could see that he admired you still.” And Mrs. Vivian gave a little soft sigh. “Ah! she is thinking of the thirty thousand a year,” Bernard said to himself. “I am sure I hope he admires me still,” the girl cried, laughing. “There is no great harm in that.” “He was comparing you with Blanche--and he was struck with the contrast.” “It could n’t have been in my favor. If it ‘s a question of being looked at, Blanche bears it better than I.” “Poor little Blanche!” murmured Mrs. Vivian, sweetly. “Why did you tell me he was so happy with her?” Angela asked, turning to Bernard, abruptly. Bernard gazed at her a moment, with his eyebrows raised.