But that did not hinder him on the next day after these events, which was Sunday, from finding himself by Lucy’s side in one of the quiet moments of that quiet day. He was going off the next morning, and it chanced to him, unawares, to come into the Louis Quinze room in the interval between church and luncheon, which is a moment of general dispersion in which no one knows where any one is. Lucy was in the morning-room writing a letter, when Durant came in. He was very self-denying, yet when she stopped and laid down her pen, and said, “Come in, don’t go away!” he could not resist the invitation. He came in and stood near her, leaning upon the corner of the mantel-shelf close to one of those big rococo Cupids between whom Sir John was so fond of placing himself. And Lucy was a little eager, almost agitated, more resolute to talk to him than he was to talk to her. She said without any preface, “Are you really going away to-morrow? I was surprised--and I don’t seem to have seen you at all, or to have said half I had to say.” “I must go,” he said with a sigh, “for many reasons; and chiefly because--” “Because what? You do not think there is any change, Mr. Durant? You must not think there is any change: there is no one mamma trusts in so entirely as in you.” “I am very glad to think so,” he said, “and to believe that she would trust me if any thing occurred--if I was wanted.” Here he made a pause, and added in a low tone, “and you too?” “And I too! can you doubt it? I know,” said Lucy faltering, “that Arthur has no such true friend.” He made a little unconscious gesture with his hand. She knew exactly what it meant. It meant Arthur, always Arthur! never anything on his own account; always for the use that might be made of him. But this would have been very unreasonable had he put it into words, for it was precisely on this reason that he had claimed to be trusted, “if anything occurred--if he was wanted.” Very unreasonable and inconsistent; but then men are so. And what could she say? She could not take the initiative, and tell him that her interest in him, at least, was not all on account of Arthur. She made a tremulous pause, and then said, “Everything is so different this year. We have done nothing but talk to you of Arthur. The time seems gone in which we used to talk so freely--of, us all.” “Yes,” he said, “it is kind, very kind of you to use such words. What talks we have had here of--us all! before we had began to feel the differences between us.” “What differences?” she said eagerly. “Mr. Durant, I hope you are too generous to think that any outside differences--” Poor Lucy coloured and grew so eager, that her earnestness defeated its object, and she could not get the words out.