"Well, George Neville," said Mercy, very slowly and softly, "when you have a mind to tell me what you came here for, and who sent you, you will find me in this little room. I seldom leave it now. I beg you to speak your errand to none but me." And she sighed deeply. Sir George bowed low, and retired to collect his wits. He had come here strongly prepossessed against Mercy. But, instead of a vulgar, shallow woman, whom he was to surprise into confession, he encountered a soft-eyed Puritan, all unpretending dignity, grace, propriety, and sagacity. "Flatter her!" said he, to himself, "I might as well flatter an iceberg. Out-wit her! I feel like a child beside her." He strolled about in a brown study, not knowing what to do. She had given him a fair opening. She had invited him to tell the truth. But he was afraid to take her at her word: and yet what was the use to persist in what his own eyes told him was the wrong course? Whilst he hesitated, and debated within himself, a trifling incident turned the scale. A poor woman came begging, with her child, and was received rather roughly by Harry Vint. "Pass on, good woman," said he, "we want no tramps here." Then a window was opened on the ground floor, and Mercy beckoned the woman. Sir George flattened himself against the wall, and listened to the two talking. Mercy examined the woman gently, but shrewdly, and elicited a tale of genuine distress. Sir George then saw her hand out to the woman some warm flannel for herself, a piece of stuff for the child, a large piece of bread, and a sixpence. He also caught sight of Mercy's dove-like eyes, as she bestowed her alms, and they were lit with an inward lustre. "She cannot be an ill woman," thought Sir George. "I'll e'en go by my own eyes and judgment. After all, Mrs. Gaunt has never seen her; and I have." He went and knocked at Mercy's door. "Come in," said a mild voice. Neville entered, and said, abruptly, and with great emotion, "Madam, I see you can feel for the unhappy; so I take my own way now, and appeal to your pity. I _have_ come to speak to you on the saddest business." "You come from _him_," said Mercy, closing her lips tight; but her bosom heaved. Her heart and her judgment grappled like wrestlers that moment. "Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I come from _her._" Mercy knew in a moment who "her" must be. She looked scared, and drew back with manifest signs of repulsion. The movement did not escape Sir George: it alarmed him: he remembered what Mrs. Gaunt had said; that this woman would be sure to hate Gaunt's lawful wife. But it was too late to go back. He did the next best thing, he rushed on. He threw himself on his knees before Mercy Vint. "Oh, madam!" he cried, piteously, "do not set your heart against the most unhappy lady in England. If you did but know her, her nobleness, her misery! Before you steel yourself against me, her friend, let me ask you one question. Do you know where Mrs. Gaunt is at this moment?"