Again Miles said nothing, and again Nora felt that his silence was more effective than the longest speech. But still borne on the high tide of her enthusiasm, she went on arranging the knives and forks, and only her burning cheeks betrayed that she was not so entirely at her ease. Suddenly, to her complete bewilderment, she found Miles’s arm about her and her own head against his shoulder. "Poor little Nora!" he said. "Poor little sister!" Nora gasped. He had never been affectionate in his life before, and the tone of manly tenderness was so new as to be almost incredible. She threw back her head and looked into his face with mingled laughter and wonder. He was perfectly serious, and for the first time it dawned on her that there was a real change in him which went deeper than the evening-dress, that he had in fact left boyhood behind him and assumed something of the manners and bearing of a man, something, too, of his father, the Rev. John Ingestre. Gradually her smile died away under the undisturbed seriousness of his gaze. "Why, what is the matter, Miles?" she asked. "I have never known you like this before." He bent his head and kissed her. "It struck me when I was dressing that I had been a bit of a brute," he said. "I am awfully sorry, dear. I had imagined everything so very different that it fairly took my breath away, and I said—well, what had no doubt been better left unsaid. I thought you had humbugged us and I was inclined to be angry. When I thought it over I saw how it all was and I was awfully sorry. Poor old girl!" She caught her breath, seeking wildly for words to answer him, but none came. She had been prepared for and armed against scorn, not against this brotherly sympathy! Sympathy! What had she to do with sympathy? Sympathy was an insult to Wolff—an insult to their love! With an effort she tried to free herself. "You don’t understand," she stammered. "Oh, yes, I think I do," he interrupted. "I understand all that you won’t tell me, because you are such a decent little soul; and I will say this and no more: I wish to Heaven it had been another man, Nora, a fine English fellow who would have given you a decent English home. I wish it had been poor old Arnold——" "Miles, let me go!" She wrenched herself from his hands. She had seen what he had not seen—Wolff standing in the open doorway, watching them with a curiously pale, grave face. Had he heard, and if he had heard, had he understood? Nora could not tell. Furious with Miles and with herself, she ran to him and put her arms about his neck. "Oh, how glad I am that you have come!" she cried incoherently. "You are just in time for supper. How did you manage to get away so early?" He kissed her upturned face. Lips and hands were icy.