Accordingly, Elinor went to live at Westbourne Terrace. Marian had spent a month of her childhood in Wiltshire, and had made of Elinor an exacting friend, always ready to take offence, and to remain jealous and sulky for days if one of her sisters, or any other little girl, engaged her cousin’s attention long. On the other hand, Elinor’s attachment was idolatrous in its intensity; and as Marian was sweet-tempered, and more apt to fear that she had disregarded Elinor’s feelings than to take offence at her waywardness, their friendship endured after they were parted. Their promises of correspondence were redeemed by Elinor with very long letters at uncertain intervals, and by Marian with shorter epistles notifying all her important movements. Marian, often called upon to defend her cousin from the charge of being a little shrew, was led to dwell upon her better qualities. Elinor found in Marian what she had never found at her own home, a friend, and in her uncle’s house a refuge from that of her father, which she hated. She had been Marian’s companion for four years when the concert took place at Wandsworth. Next day they were together in the drawing-room at Westbourne Terrace: Marian writing, Elinor at the pianoforte, working at some technical studies, to which she had been incited by the shortcoming of her performance on the previous night. She stopped on hearing a bell ring. “What o’clock is it?” she said, after listening a moment. “Surely it is too early for a visit.” “It is only half past two,” replied Marian. “I hope it is not anybody. I have not half finished my correspondence.” “If you please, Miss,” said a maid, entering, “Mr. Douglas wants to see you, and he wont come up.” “I suppose he expects you to go down and talk to him in the hall,” said Elinor. “He is in the dining-room, and wishes to see you most particular,” said the maid. “Tell him I will come down,” said Marian. “He heard me practising,” said Elinor, “that is why he would not come up. I am in disgrace, I suppose.” “Nonsense, Nelly! But indeed I have no doubt he has come to complain of our conduct, since he insists on seeing me alone.” Miss McQuinch looked sceptically at Marian’s guileless eyes, but resumed her technical studies without saying anything. Marian went to the dining-room, where she found Douglas standing near the window, tall and handsome, frock coated and groomed to a spotless glossiness that established a sort of relationship between him and the sideboard, the condition of which did credit to Marian’s influence over her housemaids. He looked intently at her as she bade him good morning. “I am afraid I am rather early,” he said, half stiffly, half apologetically. “Not at all,” said Marian. “I have come to say something which I do not care to keep unsaid longer than I can help; so I thought it better to come when I could hope to find you alone. I hope I have not disturbed you. I have something rather important to say.”