He got no answer, and going up to his mamma’s knee repeated his question in an insistent tone. But the door opened, and the servant announced Mr. Grandcourt. Mrs. Glasher rose in some agitation. Henleigh frowned at him in disgust at his not being the miller, and the three little girls lifted up their dark eyes to him timidly. They had none of them any particular liking for this friend of mamma’s—in fact, when he had taken Mrs. Glasher’s hand and then turned to put his other hand on Henleigh’s head, that energetic scion began to beat the friend’s arm away with his fists. The little girls submitted bashfully to be patted under the chin and kissed, but on the whole it seemed better to send them into the garden, where they were presently dancing and chatting with the dogs on the gravel. “How far are you come?” said Mrs. Glasher, as Grandcourt put away his hat and overcoat. “From Diplow,” he answered slowly, seating himself opposite her and looking at her with an unnoting gaze which she noted. “You are tired, then.” “No, I rested at the Junction—a hideous hole. These railway journeys are always a confounded bore. But I had coffee and smoked.” Grandcourt drew out his handkerchief, rubbed his face, and in returning the handkerchief to his pocket looked at his crossed knee and blameless boot, as if any stranger were opposite to him, instead of a woman quivering with a suspense which every word and look of his was to incline toward hope or dread. But he was really occupied with their interview and what it was likely to include. Imagine the difference in rate of emotion between this woman whom the years had worn to a more conscious dependence and sharper eagerness, and this man whom they were dulling into a more neutral obstinacy. “I expected to see you—it was so long since I had heard from you. I suppose the weeks seem longer at Gadsmere than they do at Diplow,” said Mrs. Glasher. She had a quick, incisive way of speaking that seemed to go with her features, as the tone and _timbre_ of a violin go with its form. “Yes,” drawled Grandcourt. “But you found the money paid into the bank.” “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Glasher, curtly, tingling with impatience. Always before—at least she fancied so—Grandcourt had taken more notice of her and the children than he did to-day. “Yes,” he resumed, playing with his whisker, and at first not looking at her, “the time has gone on at rather a rattling pace with me; generally it is slow enough. But there has been a good deal happening, as you know”—here he turned his eyes upon her. “What do I know?” said she, sharply. He left a pause before he said, without change of manner, “That I was thinking of marrying. You saw Miss Harleth?” “_She_ told you that?” The pale cheeks looked even paler, perhaps from the fierce brightness in the eyes above them. “No. Lush told me,” was the slow answer. It was as if the thumb-screw and the iron boot were being placed by creeping hands within sight of the expectant victim.