Ellen left her brother’s room in a state of irritation which was not the less intense because it was suppressed. She felt that her _coup_ had not come off—that she had even made matters worse instead of better. She had calculated, if Henry’s affections were not touched, that at least his vanity would be flattered, by the tale of Emma’s dramatic exhibition of feeling: indeed, for aught she knew, either or both of these conjectures might be correct; but she was obliged to confess that he had given no sign by which she could interpret his mind in any such sense. The signs were all the other way, indeed, for he had taken the opportunity to lecture her on her breach of confidence, and it angered her to know that the reproof was deserved. In truth, she was so desperately anxious to bring about this marriage as soon as possible, that she had allowed herself to be carried away, with the result, as she now saw, of hindering her own object. Ellen had a very imperfect appreciation of her brother’s character. She believed him to be cold and pharisaical, and under this latter head she set down his notions concerning the contraction of marriages that chanced to be satisfactory from a money point of view. It did not enter into her estimate of him to presume that he might possess a delicacy of feeling which was lacking in her own nature; that the idea of being thrust into marriage with any woman in order to relieve the pecuniary necessities of his family, might revolt him to the extent of causing a person, whom perhaps he would otherwise have loved, to become almost distasteful to him. She did not understand even that the premature and unsought declaration of affection for himself on the part of the lady who was designed by others to be his wife, might produce a somewhat similar effect. And yet a very slight consideration of the principles of human nature would have taught her that this was likely to be the case. These were solutions of Henry’s conduct that did not suggest themselves to Ellen, or, if they did, she dismissed them contemptuously in her search for a more plausible explanation. Soon she found one which seemed to explain everything: Joan was the explanation. Nothing escaped Ellen’s quick eyes, and she had noticed that Joan also was distressed at Henry’s danger. She had marked, moreover, how he clung to this girl, refusing to be parted from her even in his delirium, and with what tenderness she nursed him; and she knew how often men fall in love with women who tend them in sickness.