Here, however, he found they went a very little way. Mercy did not even smile. She cast out of her dove-like eyes a gentle, humble, reproachful glance, as much as to say, "What! do I seem so vain a creature as to believe all this?" Sir George himself had tact and sensibility; and by and by became discontented with the part he was playing, under those meek, honest eyes. There was a pause; and, as her sex have a wonderful art of reading the face, Mercy looked at him steadily, and said, "_Yes_, sir, 'tis best to be straightforward, especially with women-folk." Before he could recover this little facer, she said, quietly, "What is your name?" "George Neville." "Well, George Neville," said Mercy, very slowly and softly, "when you have a mind to tell me what you came here for, and who sent you, you will find me in this little room. I seldom leave it now. I beg you to speak your errand to none but me." And she sighed deeply. Sir George bowed low, and retired to collect his wits. He had come here strongly prepossessed against Mercy. But, instead of a vulgar, shallow woman, whom he was to surprise into confession, he encountered a soft-eyed Puritan, all unpretending dignity, grace, propriety, and sagacity. "Flatter her!" said he, to himself. "I might as well flatter an iceberg. Outwit her! I feel like a child beside her." He strolled about in a brown study, not knowing what to do. She had given him a fair opening. She had invited him to tell the truth. But he was afraid to take her at her word; and yet what was the use to persist in what his own eyes told him was the wrong course? Whilst he hesitated, and debated within himself, a trifling incident turned the scale. A poor woman came begging, with her child, and was received rather roughly by Harry Vint. "Pass on, good woman," said he, "we want no tramps here." Then a window was opened on the ground floor, and Mercy beckoned the woman. Sir George flattened himself against the wall, and listened to the two talking. Mercy examined the woman gently, but shrewdly, and elicited a tale of genuine distress. Sir George then saw her hand out to the woman some warm flannel for herself, a piece of stuff for the child, a large piece of bread, and a sixpence. He also caught sight of Mercy's dove-like eyes as she bestowed her alms, and they were lit with an inward lustre. "She cannot be an ill woman," said Sir George. "I'll e'en go by my own eyes and judgment. After all, Mrs. Gaunt has never seen her, and I have." He went and knocked at Mercy's door. "Come in," said a mild voice. Neville entered, and said, abruptly, and with great emotion, "Madam, I see you can feel for the unhappy; so I take my own way now, and appeal to your pity. I _have_ come to speak to you on the saddest business." "You come from _him_," said Mercy, closing her lips tight; but her bosom heaved. Her heart and her judgment grappled like wrestlers that moment. "Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I come from _her_."