After a moment he reassured himself. He did not believe that Spenceley knew her name. He had not mentioned it. Myles would have died rather than utter it himself in that company--that would indeed have been a casting of pearls before swine, of which he was naturally incapable. If Mr. Spenceley chose to prosecute him he would own himself guilty, and take his punishment--anything rather than drag her name into the discussion; but he doubted much whether Spenceley would wish to draw public attention so pointedly to the fact that he had been flogged by a workman in the billiard-room of his own club. That would have been to expose his own brutal insolence and violence, and to hint, moreover, at some discreditable deed in the background which had called forth the attack. Myles began to wonder how that beautiful sister of his, whom he had spoken to that morning--could it be that morning?--would receive her brother. Then his thoughts wandered off again to Adrienne. ‘At any rate, I can’t face her yet. I must stay quiet awhile until it has blown over. Perhaps, as she’s so very quiet, and goes out so little, she’ll not hear about it; and then I could call, and not mention it, and it would all pass over.’ A knock at the back door roused him. Mary lifted her head, and cried ‘Come in!’ but after a pause the knock was renewed. ‘It’s Harry,’ observed Edmund. ‘Thou mun open to him, Myles, or he’ll go on knocking for half an hour.’ ‘Ay, poor lad, I suppose he will,’ said Myles, going towards the door, while Mary maintained absolute silence, continuing her work. Myles soon returned, accompanied by a young man, slight and somewhat delicate-looking, pale-faced and fair-complexioned, whose calm, open countenance was pleasant to look upon, despite a certain vagueness in its expression--not a want of intelligence, or anything approaching vacancy, but rather as if something escaped him and left him apart from other people. ‘Good evenin’, Mary--evenin’, Ned,’ he said, in the very softest and gentlest of voices. ‘Sit down, Harry, and have supper with us,’ said Myles; and when he spoke, Harry Ashworth’s infirmity became apparent. Myles had to go close up to him and speak, not very loudly, but very slowly and clearly. He was almost deaf, in consequence of a fever he had had when a boy of twelve. He was twenty-five now, and the weakness increased each year: it was probable that in a few more years he would be stone-deaf. He was a frequent visitor at the Heywoods’, and a great friend of Myles and Edmund; Mary and he had little to say to each other beyond the words of greeting and farewell. There was a certain constraint this evening immediately after his entrance, on account of what had happened in regard to Mrs. Heywood, but this constraint was dissipated by Harry himself. ‘I hear your mother has gone,’ he remarked. Myles assented in a grave sort of way. Mary’s cheeks flushed, and she did not raise her eyes from her work.