He was very desperately and truly in love with Harriet Brandt. Like most men who use their brains in fiction, his work, whilst in course of progression, occupied his energies to such an extent that he had no time or thought for anything else. But the burden once lifted, the romance written, the strain and anxiety removed, the pendulum swung in the other direction, and Anthony Pennell devoted all his attention to pleasure and amusement. He had been set down by his colleagues as a reserved and cold-blooded man with regard to the other sex, but he was only self-contained and thoughtful. He was as warm by nature, as Harriet herself, and once sure of a response, could make love with the best, and as he flew to her assistance now, he resolved that if anything unpleasant had occurred to drive her from the Red House, and launch her friendless on the world, he would persuade her to marry him at once, and elect him her protector and defence. His fair face flushed with anticipation as he thought of the joy it would be to make her his wife, and take her far away from everything that could annoy or harass her. Having arrived at the Langham and flung a double fare to the cab-driver, he ran up the high staircase with the light step of a boy, and dashed into Harriet’s private room. The girl was sitting, much as she had done since returning from her interview with the doctor--silent, sullen, and alone, at war with Heaven and Destiny and all that had conduced to blight the brightest hopes she had ever had. “Hally, my darling, why is this?” exclaimed Pennell, as he essayed to fold her in his arms. But she pushed him off, not unkindly but with considerable determination. “Don’t touch me, Tony!--don’t come near me. You had better not! I might harm you!” “What is the matter? Are you ill? If so, you know me too well to imagine that I should fear infection.” “No! no! you do not understand!” replied Harriet, as she rose from her seat and edged further away from him, “but I am going to tell you all! It is for that I sent for you!” Then, waving him from her with her hand, she related the whole story to him--what the Baroness had accused her of, and what Doctor Phillips had said in confirmation of it, only that morning. Pennell had heard something of it before, through Margaret Pullen, but he had paid no attention to it, and now, when Harriet repeated it in detail, with swollen eyes and quivering lips, he laughed the idea to scorn. “Pooh! Nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it,” he exclaimed, “it is a parcel of old woman’s tales. Phillips should be ashamed of himself to place any credence in it, far more to repeat it to you! Hally, my darling! you are surely not going to make yourself unhappy because of such nonsense. If so, you are not the sensible girl I have taken you for!”