Fanshawe turned away, dismayed. He felt himself the most profane, secular, troublesome intruder. Poor Tom’s shadow seemed to stop up all the ordinary currents of life, and create a fictitious existence, full of impossible laws of its own for the mourners. Little Milly sat in a corner, reading--not her favourite stories, or the fairy tales which had been her constant companions, but a good book about a little boy who died in the odour of sanctity. She was reading it with the corners of her mouth turned down, and every soft, wavy line about her stilled into angles and gravity. Fanshawe went and sat down by her, and began to talk of that voyage, which he had once proposed, to the Isle of May. He led the child so far out of herself, that at the end of five minutes she laughed, a sound which frightened her to death, and which made both her uncle and her sister raise their eyes, as if something dreadful had happened. May said nothing, and her eyes, tearful though they were, smiled at the little creature; but Mr. Charles said in a voice which was harsh for him:-- “You forget that this is a house of mourning.” Poor Milly cried a little by way of expiating that weakness of nature, and relapsed into her good book; but Fanshawe could not cry, and had no good book to retire into. He yawned visibly, as he lay back in his low chair and contemplated his companions. He was a good-for-nothing; he had no letters to write, no studies to carry on. When he was not amused or occupied, he yawned. What else was there to do? There is nothing which more piques a woman than this frank and unblushing _ennui_, when it makes itself visible within reach of her. Marjory felt half-insulted, half-stimulated to exertion. “Is there nothing we can show Mr. Fanshawe?” she said, in a tone of semi-irritation. “I fear our pictures are only family-portraits, and we possess nothing that is curious. Uncle Charles has all the rarities in the house, and those you have seen already. Should you like to go over the old hall--the ruinous part? There is not much to see.” “I should like it very much,” said Fanshawe. He did not care two straws about the old ruined Manor-house; but the thought of a _tête-à-tête_ with May was pleasant to him, partly because of the vague attraction which a handsome young woman has for a young man, and partly because he was curious about her individually. She was a new species to him; he had not made her out, and the study was an agreeable kind of study. With a slight flush of impatience on her face, she had risen to lead the way; and he, secretly delighted, but perfectly demure and serious, was following, when all his satisfaction was suddenly turned into discomfiture. The door opened, and, with a tone of solemnity, Fleming entered and announced, “Doctor and Mistress Murray.”