In the central hall she took leave of Rosalie, and disappeared inside the gloomy eastern wing. And Rosalie made no further attempt to come with her, for her horror of the previous night was still fresh in her mind. “I don’t know how Mariana can do it,” she thought, standing still in the great hall. “It’s killing her. She looked like death this morning. And to go there right away, to be buried in that damp sepulchre! It’s terrible, terrible! I _hate_ Mr. Barringcourt! He’s bad—right-down bad! The worst man I know!” But then she knew so very few. She was awakened from this reverie to find Everard, the doorkeeper, coming toward her. Her first impulse was to turn away and walk toward the staircase, which she did. “Miss Paleaf!” His tone attracted her immediate attention. There was a certain strong gravity in it that appealed to what gravity and steadiness there was in her. “Yes,” she answered, turning round to view this wringer of necks in prospective. “You have endeavoured to do an incredible amount of harm since coming here. Don’t you think it would be advisable to practise a little self-control?” “Yes. I think if it were practicable it would be advisable to shut myself up in a tin box, or oak, perhaps, and turn round once a week for recreation.” “You rush from one extreme to the other without any attempt at reason.” “And—and you?” “For Mariana’s sake I wish to advise you to be careful.” “Not for my own?” “No. I know nothing about you, and you seem pretty capable of looking after yourself.” Rosalie looked at him, not knowing whether her dislike was growing or lessening. “Do you know you’re taking a great liberty?” she said, her colour rising despite her efforts to keep cool. “Yes. And under the circumstances it is pardonable.” “What circumstances?” “You are doing your best to destroy the happiness and peace of a working woman.” “Happiness! Happiness! Do you call it happiness to be fastened up in there the greater part of the day-time?” And she pointed to the door through which Mariana had passed a short time before. “When she is contented it is, at least, the nearest approach to happiness. And your ignorant meddling can never have a good result.” Then Rosalie was silent, and with no heart to answer she turned away, and went upstairs to the little sitting-room. Her own heart ached enough in all conscience. O God! to be free! away from all this coldness and hardness, and gloom and silence. She buried her face in her hands and cried from utter dejection. When she went to wash her hands and face for dinner, she was dismayed at her own plain looks. She was very far from being ready for a meal, and made little attempt or pretence at eating what was placed before her. At last the young man who waited on her presented a red lozenge to her on a silver plate. “What is it?” she asked, not being accustomed to this particular dish.