And they walked up to the house together, saying little more. Fairfax had but little leisure to think of Spears. He was going to his own trial, and he did not know how he was to come out of it. The court had sat upon his case for the last twenty-four hours, and no doubt had come to a final decision. It would have been an important subject indeed which could have done more than touch the edge of his anxious mind. Paul left him in the hall; and Mr. Brown, divining that something more was going on, and having, as has been said, a well-founded and favourable estimate of Fairfax, for reasons of his own, showed him with great solemnity into the sanctuary where Lady Markham sat alone. She did not rise to meet him, but smiled, and held out her left hand to him, with the pretty French fashion of acknowledging intimacy. It was a good sign. He went up very eagerly to the beautiful, kind woman, in whose hands he felt was his fate. “You find me quite _emotionnée_,” she said, “parting from Mr. Spears. Yes, you may smile--but I was more like crying. I am sure he is a good man, though he may be--led astray.” “He is not led astray,” said Fairfax; but then he remembered that it was not his business to plead any cause but his own. He looked at her wistfully, though there was always that under-gleam of humour in his eyes. “I have come up for sentence, Lady Markham,” he said. She smiled. “The sentence will not be very severe; there is not much harm done.” This was far worse than any severity could be. His countenance fell, sudden despondency filled his heart; and now the humour fled altogether from the mournful eyes with which he looked up into his judge’s face. This time Lady Markham almost laughed. “You do not seem pleased to hear it,” she said. “I thought it might ease your mind.” “Oh, Lady Markham do not jeer at me! You may think it does not matter, but to me----” “It is sport to me, but death to you?” she said; “is that what you would say? No, Mr. Fairfax--no; not so bad as that. And you must pardon me if I am light-minded. I am happy. Paul is not going with those mad people; he is safe; he is free.” “I am very glad,” said Fairfax, “but may I say that Paul is irrelevant just now? I have come up for my sentence. Is it to be banishment, or is it----? Ah, Lady Markham, tell me--is there any hope?” “Mr. Fairfax,” she said, with great gravity, “you ask me for leave to get my Alice from me, if you can; and then you tell me you are nobody, of no family, with no connections. Pardon me; my only informant in yourself.” “It is true--quite true.” “Then,” she said, and paused, “judge for me, Mr. Fairfax, what can I say?” He made no reply, and there was an interval of silence, which was very heavy, very painful to Lady Markham’s kind heart. She felt compelled to speak, because of that stillness of expectation which made the moment tragical.