"Show him in," said Lady Frances, allowing herself just a moment for consideration,--a moment so short that she trusted that no hesitation had been visible. And yet she had doubted much. She had been very clear in explaining to her brother that she had made no promise. She had never pledged herself to any one that she would deny herself to her lover should he come to see her. She would not admit to herself that even her brother, even her father, had a right to demand from her such a pledge. But she knew what were her brother's wishes on this matter, and what were the reasons for them. She knew also how much she owed to him. But she too had suffered from that long silence. She had considered that a lover whom she never saw, and from whom she never heard, was almost as bad as no lover at all. She had beaten her feathers against her cage, as she thought of this cruel separation. She had told herself of the short distance which separated Hendon from Holloway. She perhaps had reflected that had the man been as true to her as was she to him, he would not have allowed himself to be deterred by the injunctions either of father or brother. Now, at any rate, when her lover was at the door, she could not turn him away. It had all to be thought of, but it was thought of so quickly that the order for her lover's admittance was given almost without a pause which could have been felt. Then, in half a minute, her lover was in the room with her. Need the chronicler of such scenes declare that they were in each other's arms before a word was spoken between them? The first word that was spoken came from her. "Oh, George, how long it has been!" "It has been long to me." "But at last you have come?" "Did you expect me sooner? Had you not agreed with Hampstead and your father that I was not to come?" "Never mind. You are here now. Poor papa, you know, is very ill. Perhaps I may have to go down there. John is there now." "Is he so ill as that?" "John went last night. We do not quite know how ill he is. He does not write, and we doubt whether we get at the truth. I was very nearly going with him; and then, sir, you would not have seen me--at all." "Another month, another six months, another year, would have made no difference in my assurance of your truth to me." "That is a very pretty speech for you to make." "Nor I think in yours for me." "I am bound, of course, to be just as pretty as you are. But why have you come now? You shouldn't have come when John had left me all alone." "I did not know that you were here alone." "Or you would not have come, perhaps? But you should not have come. Why did you not ask before you came?" "Because I should have been refused. It would have been refused; would it not?" "Certainly it would." "But as I wish to see you specially--"