"Eugenia," he said, solemnly, all unconscious of her state of nervous expectancy, and with something in his tone as if he were preparing to suit himself to the comprehension of a child--an almost imperceptible increase of importance and condescension which puzzled and slightly jarred her--"Eugenia, I want to speak to you, and I must have your full attention. Oblige me by putting away your writing." She obeyed him silently. Then, with her beautiful eyes looking up in his face half-timidly--for her expectation was mingled with vague apprehension that in some way or other she might again have unknowingly vexed him--she waited to hear what he had to say. There was a good deal to explain. She knew so little of his family affairs, was so utterly unprepared for what she had to hear, that once or twice when he first began to speak she interrupted him with some necessary question, obliging him to go over the ground again more intelligibly. He chafed a little at this, though doing his best to restrain his impatience; so Eugenia, after a minute or two, listened in silence, listened without a movement or an exclamation, or even a glance of surprise or interest, to all he told her of his family's position and possessions, of the former remoteness of his own chance of succession, of the premature death of Herbert Chancellor and now of that of his sickly son, of the consequent complete change in his own circumstances and the different life that now lay before them both. There was a mixture of feelings in Beauchamp as he spoke. He in a sense enjoyed the telling it. He dwelt with a certain gusto upon some of the details, he was conscious of a pleasure, a sort of lordly gratification, in spreading out before the dazzled vision of this innocent little wife of his, the wealth, the position, the many "good things" which were now to be his, and through him hers. He really loved her; he was glad to have so much to bestow, and the thought of her gratitude for his future indulgence, her appreciation of his past disinterestedness (for "I knew how it would all be some little time ago," he said, "but I judged it better to keep silence for the time") was very sweet to him. But with these not unamiable, if not very lofty, feelings, there mingled others less harmless. Mrs Eyrecourt's letter had not been without some covert stings, some half-expressed allusions to "what might have been" and what was, and these, though Beauchamp would have repelled them with indignation to her face, were, as usual, not without their uncomfortable effect upon him. And he, to do him justice, was conscious of the unworthiness of harbouring even the shadow of regret for what he had done. He wanted to get rid of it; he had come to Eugenia eager to sun himself in her innocent delight; to realise that, look where he would, he could not have found a sweeter wife, or one so certain to appreciate himself and all he had done and meant to do.