“Nay,” said John, unawares. He had not meant to enter into the talk--but to look at her standing there before him in her fresh morning dress, in all her perfection of youth and sweetness, and to believe that anybody had ever been more lovely, was impossible. At that moment, when he was about to leave her, he could have bent down and kissed the hem of her dress. It seemed the only fitting thing to do, but it could not be done before all these people. Kate was still more and more perplexed what he could mean. His eyes, which had been blank, lighted up all in a moment, and spoke things to her which she could not understand. What was the meaning of the pathos in them--the melancholy, the dumb appeal that almost made her cry? She gave a little laugh instead, much fluttered and disturbed in her mind the while, and nodded her head and went on to her seat at the head of the table. “When one’s friends begin to discuss one’s looks, don’t you think it is best to withdraw?” she said. “Oh, thanks, Madeline, for doing my duty. It is so wretched to be late. Please, somebody, have some tea.” And then the ordinary talk came in and swept this little episode out of sight. When breakfast was over, and one after another the guests began to disperse to their morning occupations, Kate, turning round to accompany one of the last to the morning room, where all the embroidery and the practising and the gossip went on, had her uncomfortable thoughts brought back in a moment by the sight of John standing right in her way, holding out his hand. “I am obliged to go away,” he said, in the most calm tone he could muster. “Good-bye, Miss Crediton; and thanks, many thanks.” “Going away!” cried Kate, standing still in her amazement. “Going away! Has anything happened at Fanshawe Regis---- Your mother--or Dr Mitford----?” “They are both well,” he said. “I am not going to Fanshawe, only back to the town to my work. Good-bye.” “I must hear about this,” said Kate, abruptly. “Please don’t wait for me, Madeline; I want to speak to Mr Mitford. Go on, and I will join you. Oh, John, what does it mean?” she cried, turning to her lover, almost without waiting until the door had closed on her companion. By this time everybody was gone, and the two were left alone in the great empty room where five minutes ago there had been so much sound and movement. They were standing in front of one of the deeply-recessed windows, with the light falling direct upon them as on a stage. He held out his hand again and took hers, which she was too much disturbed to give. “It is nothing,” he said, with a forlorn sort of smile, “except just that I must go away. Don’t let that cloud your face, dear. I can’t help myself. I am obliged to go.” “Is any one ill?” she cried; “is that the reason? Oh, John, tell me! are you really _obliged_ to go? Or is it--anything--we have done?”