“What name did you say?” asked Brown. “I’ll tell Mrs. Martin, and she can do as she thinks proper.” Mrs. Martin was Lady Markham’s own maid. Thus it was through a great many hands that the name of Janet Spears reached Lady Markham’s seclusion. Charles was very triumphant when the message reached him that the young person was to go up stairs. “I told you,” he said to Mr. Brown. But Brown on his part was satisfied to know that it was only “a young person,” not a lady, whom his mistress admitted. His usual discrimination had not deserted him. As for Janet, the great staircase overawed her more than even the exterior of the house; the size and the grandeur took away her breath; and though she felt no respect for Charles, the air as of a dignified clergyman with which Mr. Brown stepped out before her, to guide her to Lady Markham’s room, not deigning to say anything, impressed her more than words could tell. No clergyman she had ever encountered had been half so imposing; though Janet from a general desire to better herself in the world, and determination not to lower herself to the level of her father’s companions, had always been a good churchwoman and eschewed Dissenters. But Mr. Brown, it may well be believed, in the gloss of his black clothes and the perfection of his linen, was not to be compared with a hardworking parish priest exposed to all weathers. By the time she had reached Lady Markham’s door her breath was coming quick with fright and excitement. Lady Markham herself had made no such strong impression. Her dress had not been what Janet thought suitable for a great lady. She had felt a natural scorn for a woman who, having silks and satins at her command, could come out in simple stuff no better than her own. Mrs. Martin, however, had a black silk which “could have stood alone,” and everything combined to dazzle the rash visitor. Now that she had got so far her knees began to tremble beneath her. Lady Markham was standing awaiting her, in deep mourning, looking a very different person from the beautiful woman whom Janet had seen standing in the sunshine in her father’s shop. She made a step forward to receive her visitor, a movement of anxiety and eagerness; then waited till the door was shut upon her attendant. “You have come--from your father?” she said. “No, my lady.” Now that it had come to the point Janet felt an unusual shyness come over her. She cast down her eyes and twisted her fingers round the handle of the umbrella she carried. “My father was away: I had a day to spare: and I thought I’d come and ask you----” “Do not be afraid. Tell me what it is you want; is it----” Lady Markham hesitated more than Janet did. Was it something about Paul? What could it be but about Paul? but she would not say anything to open that subject again. “It is about Mr. Paul, my lady. There isn’t any reason for me to hesitate. It was you that first put it into my head----”