Emily is startled by the tone in which he replies. He seems to be in earnest; not a vestige is left of the easy gayety of his manner. His face shows an expression of anxiety which she has never seen in it yet. “Do you believe me?” he asks in a whisper. She tries to change the subject. “When am I to hear you preach, Mr. Mirabel?” He persists. “When you believe me,” he says. His eyes add an emphasis to that reply which is not to be mistaken. Emily turns away from him, and notices Francine. She has left the dance, and is looking with marked attention at Emily and Mirabel. “I want to speak to you,” she says, and beckons impatiently to Emily. Mirabel whispers, “Don’t go!” Emily rises nevertheless--ready to avail herself of the first excuse for leaving him. Francine meets her half way, and takes her roughly by the arm. “What is it?” Emily asks. “Suppose you leave off flirting with Mr. Mirabel, and make yourself of some use.” “In what way?” “Use your ears--and look at that girl.” She points disdainfully to innocent Miss Plym. The rector’s daughter possesses all the virtues, with one exception--the virtue of having an ear for music. When she sings, she is out of tune; and, when she plays, she murders time. “Who can dance to such music as that?” says Francine. “Finish the waltz for her.” Emily naturally hesitates. “How can I take her place, unless she asks me?” Francine laughs scornfully. “Say at once, you want to go back to Mr. Mirabel.” “Do you think I should have got up, when you beckoned to me,” Emily rejoins, “if I had not wanted to get away from Mr. Mirabel?” Instead of resenting this sharp retort, Francine suddenly breaks into good humor. “Come along, you little spit-fire; I’ll manage it for you.” She leads Emily to the piano, and stops Miss Plym without a word of apology: “It’s your turn to dance now. Here’s Miss Brown waiting to relieve you.” Cecilia has not been unobservant, in her own quiet way, of what has been going on. Waiting until Francine and Miss Plym are out of hearing, she bends over Emily, and says, “My dear, I really do think Francine is in love with Mr. Mirabel.” “After having only been a week in the same house with him!” Emily exclaims. “At any rate,” said Cecilia, more smartly than usual, “she is jealous of _you_.” CHAPTER XXXIX. FEIGNING. The next morning, Mr. Mirabel took two members of the circle at Monksmoor by surprise. One of them was Emily; and one of them was the master of the house. Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakfast, he left his room and joined her. “Let me say one word,” he pleaded, “before we go to breakfast. I am grieved to think that I was so unfortunate as to offend you, last night.” Emily’s look of astonishment answered for her before she could speak. “What can I have said or done,” she asked, “to make you think that?”