Then stopping short, he fixed his eyes upon Helen with an expression that she was afraid to understand. It could hardly bear any interpretation but one--and yet that was impossible--ought to be impossible--from a man in Beauclerc’s circumstances--engaged--almost a married man, as she had been told to consider him. She did not know at this moment what to think--still she thought she must mistake him, and she should be excessively ashamed of such a mistake, and now more strongly felt the dread that he should see and misinterpret or interpret too rightly her emotion; she walked on quicker, and her breath grew short, and her colour heightened. He saw her agitation--a delightful hope arose in his mind. It was plain she was not indifferent--he looked at her, but dared not look long enough--feared that he was mistaken. But the embarrassment seemed to change its character even as he looked, and now it was more like displeasure--decidedly, she appeared displeased. And so she was; for she thought now that he must either be trifling with her, or, if serious, must be acting most dishonourably;--her good opinion of him must be destroyed for ever, if, as now it seemed, he wished to make an impression upon her heart--yet still she tried not to think, not to see it. She was sorry, she was very wrong to let such an idea into her mind--and still her agitation increased. Quick as she turned from him these thoughts passed in her mind, alternately angry and ashamed, and at last, forcing herself to be composed, telling herself she ought to see farther and at least to be certain before she condemned him--condemned so kind, so honourable a friend, while the fault might be all her own; she now, in a softened tone, as if begging pardon for the pain she had given, and the injustice she had done him, said some words, insignificant in themselves, but from the voice of kindness charming to Beauclerc’s ear and soul. “Are not we walking very fast?” said she, breathless. He slackened his pace instantly, and with a delighted look, while she, in a hurried voice, added, “But do not let me delay you. There is the boat. You must be in haste--impatient!” “In haste! impatient! to leave you, Helen!” She blushed deeper than he had ever seen her blush before. Beauclerc in general knew-- “Which blush was anger’s, which was love’s!” --But now he was so much moved he could not decide at the first glance: at the second, there was no doubt; it was anger--not love. Her arm was withdrawn from his. He was afraid he had gone too far. He had called her Helen! He begged pardon, half humbly, half proudly. “I beg pardon; Miss Stanley, I should have said. I see I have offended. I fear I have been presumptuous, but Lady Davenant taught me to trust to Miss Stanley’s sincerity, and I was encouraged by her expressions of confidence and friendship.”