She rose at once to go to her room for it, saying, as before, that only she could find it. He followed her through the dining-room; which was now deserted, as Foxwell and Rashleigh had soon joined the ladies in the drawing-room. In the wide entrance-hall, as Everell could accompany her no farther, he caught her hand lightly, and said: “Don’t be long in finding it, I pray. Remember, every moment—” He checked himself, and turned the supplication to gaiety by a smile. “Be considerate of my impatience, dear.” Struck by his manner, she looked searchingly at his face. But he kissed her hand in a playful way, and gave it a little toss toward the stairway; up which she hastened a moment later, reassured. There was a footman stationed in the entrance-hall, and Everell, not wishing his mood to be observed, went back into the dining-room to await Georgiana’s return. He still held in one hand the book from which she had been reading. He turned the pages, gazing at the words, but receiving no impression from them. The table remained as the gentlemen had left it, except that the candelabrum had been removed, only two candles in wall-sconces remaining to light the room. The fire in the chimney-place was low, and the air rather chill, for the evening had set in with a cold wind. “Little do I care, though it freeze and blow,” thought Everell, standing by the fireplace. “Why does she delay? Cruel!—but she knows not. The minutes!—the minutes I am losing!” But in truth she was expeditious, and so quiet in her return that she entered the room before he had heard her step. He went to her with a subdued cry, seized the miniature from her hand, and pressed it—and then the hand itself—with passionate tenderness to his lips. “It shall never leave me,” he said. “It shall be the last thing I look upon—it shall feel the last beat of my heart.” “But that will be many, many years in the future,” said Georgiana, with a half-comic air of complaint, “and meanwhile you don’t even look at the picture now!” “Time enough for that!—Let me look only at you now.” “What do you mean? There is time enough for looking at me, too. Tell me if the likeness flatters me.” “Nothing could do that. ’Tis a lovely portrait—never was a lovelier; but the eyes are not as sweet as the original’s—nor the face as angelic—nor the hair as soft—nor the colour as fair—nor the look as tender. ’Tis nothing to the life—and yet ’tis adorable. ’Twas kindly thought, to give it me,—more kindly than you know, dear.” He kissed it once more; then, having placed it carefully in the breast pocket of his waistcoat, took both her hands, and regarded her with an intentness that reawoke the vague alarm she had felt in the hall. “Why do you look in that manner, Everell? Why do you speak so strangely this evening? You make me almost afraid—for you, that is—nay, for both of us. What is it?”