That evening--it was the first of her visit to Hilfont, and a perfectly natural thing, considering the long affection between us--I paid Alice a long visit in her own room. I might have done so, even if I had been conscious of nothing to inquire about, nothing to suggest. It was rather late when we all came up-stairs, and when I had seen Miss Polly safely established in her easy chair by her fire, and eluded as well as I could the story about Elinor’s (to wit, Lady Greenfield, Sir Willoughby’s wife, once Mrs. Herbert Nugent, my cousin, and Bertie’s aunt) letter--I turned back to the bright chamber near my own, which was always called Miss Harley’s room. Alice was sitting rather listlessly by the table, reading. She looked tired, and did not seem overmuch to enjoy her book. She was very glad to see me come in, and, I suspect, to be delivered from her own thoughts, which it was clear enough she could not quite exorcise by means of literature; for it was not a novel, which there is some hope in, but a wisdom-book, much esteemed by the superior classes--one of those books which, if it has any power at all, excites one into contradiction, by conclusions about human nature in general, which we can all form our own opinions upon. I suspect Alice could not keep her attention to it, hard though she tried. When we had talked over indifferent matters for some time, my curiosity, which I might have dignified with the title of anxiety, too, roused me to closer inquiries than, perhaps, were quite justifiable. I knew that after Mr. Reredos had spoken--unless, indeed, he happened to be accepted--Alice’s lips were closed for ever on the subject, so I wickedly took advantage of my opportunities. “Perhaps ere long I shall have to congratulate you,” said I, “and you may be sure it would be a great matter for me to have you so very near. We should make famous neighbors, Alice, don’t you think? I may well be anxious about your decision, my dear, for my own sake.” “Mrs. Crofton, I do not understand you,” said Alice, in a little dismay, looking very curiously and wistfully in my face; then, after a little pause, a deep color suffused her cheeks, she started, and moved her hand impatiently upon the table, as if in sudden passion with herself, and then added, coldly, with an inexpressible self-restraint and subdued bitterness, which it was hard to understand: “Pray tell me what you mean?” The contrast of her tone, so suddenly chilled and formal, with the burning color and subdued agitation of her face, struck me wonderfully. “My dear child,” said I, “I have no right to ask--I don’t want to interfere--but you are sure to have this question submitted to you, Alice, and can’t be ignorant of that now, that it has come so far. Cannot you think what I mean?”