“Durant is not a fine friend, he is like my brother--he will be your friend too,” whispered the young man in an agony. But Nancy only pouted the more. “I don’t want such friends. I have got my father and my brother to see to me. You needn’t bring any of your fine gentlemen here.” Notwithstanding, however, the blandishments of Sarah Jane and Matilda, the stranger had risen too. He was much taller, and had a much finer figure than Arthur, the sisters thought, and he smiled, though his look was rather vague, staring as if he did not see them. “You are very kind,” he said, holding out his hand to Mrs. Bates, who hastened up to her feet too, to shake it with great cordiality. “I hope you will kindly repeat your invitation for another day, and that Arthur will bring me back, when I can take advantage of your hospitality; but I must not come among you under false pretences,” he added, laughing, “for I know nothing about the rank and fashion--that is in Arthur’s way rather than mine.” “Oh, Sir,” said Mrs. Bates, bowing, “we know what gentlemen means when they speak in that high-minded way.” This speech was such a triumph of genial mystification and confidence that Durant stared still more, and hurried forth reduced to silence, feeling himself unable in his present puzzled condition to cope with such an intellect. Poor Arthur, trying to seize the hand of his beloved, trying by piteous looks to move her from her sullen offence, lingered a moment, but in vain. “Never mind her,” said Mrs. Bates, “she will come to when you are gone. It’ll all come right to-morrow. Good night, and God bless you! I’ll see to Nancy; and you needn’t keep the door open and me in a draught,” she added querulously, “if you won’t stay.” This quickened the steps of the lover, but though he was glad to get outside, and to leave the glare and odors of that room--so long his bower of bliss, so suddenly revealed to him in its real aspect--blown away, it is impossible to say how miserable he was at such a parting from the object of his love. It was she who opened the door for him on other occasions, lingered with him in the fresh evening air, and said “Good-night” a thousand times over, each time more sweetly than the time before. So at least the foolish young fellow thought. But she had not lifted her head even to give him a last glance; she had not said “Good-night!” at all; she had dismissed him with a cloud upon her face. How was he to bear it till to-morrow? and yet how glad he was that when all of them had talked and betrayed themselves, she had never brought herself under those painful disenchanting reflections from his friend’s eyes. “Good-night, Arthur,” said saucy Sarah Jane; “and good-night, Mr. Durant. Be sure you bring him back to-morrow. You have promised mamma to come back morrow and have supper with us. Good-night, Mr. Durant.”