Mr. Brown sat working tonight in his room at Mrs. Jones's, the evening of the day mentioned in the last chapter: a shaded lamp was at his elbow; his spectacles, which he always took off in writing, lay on the table beside him. The room was of fair size for its situation; a folding screen standing cornerwise concealed the small bed. A high bureau stood opposite the fireplace, near it a dwarf-cupboard of mahogany with a flat top, which served for a side-table. Mr. Brown had drawn the larger table to the window, that he might catch the last light of the summer's evening. He sat sideways; the right hand cuff of his worn coat turned up. Out of doors he appeared as a gentleman; indoors he was economically careful in dress, as in other things. A light tap at the door; followed by the entrance of Miss Rye. He rose at once, and turned down the coat-cuff. She came to bring a letter that the postman had just left. Never, unless when forced to it by the very rare absence of the maid, did Miss Rye make her appearance in his room. The servant was out this evening; and Mrs. Jones had handed her the letter with a decisive command that might not be disregarded. "Take it in, Alletha." She put the letter on the table, and was turning out without a word. Mr. Brown went to the door, and held it close while he spoke, that the sound of voices might not be heard outside. "What is the reason that you shun me, Miss Rye? Is it well? Is it kind?" She suddenly lifted her hand to her bosom, as if a spasm took her, and the little colour that was in her face faded out of it. "It is well. As to kind--you know all that is over." "I do not know it. I neither admit it, nor its necessity. Civility at least might remain. What has been my motive, do you suppose, in coming here, but to live under the same roof that shelters you? Not to renew the past, as it once existed between us; I do not ask or wish it; but to see you now and then, to exchange an unemotional, calm word with you once in a way." "I cannot stay. Please to let me pass, sir!" "The old place, where I lodged so long, suited me, for it was private; and I need privacy, as you know," he continued, paying no attention to her request. "It was also reasonable enough to satisfy even me. Here I pay nearly double; here I am more liable to be seen by those who might do me harm. But I have braved it all for you. Perhaps the former friendship--I do not wish to offend even by a name, you see, Miss Rye--was a terrible mistake for you, but I at least have been true to it." "The best and kindest thing you can do for me, sir, is to go back to your late lodgings." "I shall stay in these. You told me, in the only interview I have held with you since I came here, that I was a man of crime. I admit it. But criminals have affections as well as other people. You are _cruel_ to me, Alletha Rye."