"That's well," he said. "I always think it the prime question in a coat, whether it is comfortable." He came back to his place in the window, so making an end of the subject; but Rotha had not said all that she wished to say. "Mrs. Cord wanted me to put this on to-day, though it was not Sunday; was she right?" "Eight? certainly. Why should one be better dressed Sunday than any other day?" "I thought people did--" said Rotha, much confused in her ideas. "And right enough," said Mr. Digby, recollecting himself, "in the cases where the work to be done in the week would injure or soil a good dress. But in other cases?--" "On Sunday one goes to church," said Rotha. "Well,--what then?" "Oughtn't one to be better dressed to go to church?" "Why should you?" Rotha was so much confounded that she had nothing to say. This was overturning all her traditions. "What do you go to church for, Rotha?" "I _ought_ to go--to think about God, I suppose." "Well, and would much dressing help you?" Rotha considered. "I don't think it helps much," she confessed. "You say, you ought to go for such a reason;--what is your real reason?" "For going? Because mother took me; or made me go without her." "You are honest," said Mr. Digby smiling. "You will agree with me that that is a poor reason; but I am glad you understand yourself, and are not deceived about it." "I don't think I understand myself, Mr. Digby." "Why not?" "Because, sometimes I am in great confusion, and can _not_ understand myself." "Let me help you when those times come." "One of the times is to-day," said Rotha in a low tone. "Ah? What's the matter?" said he looking down kindly at her. Rotha had laid her forehead against the edge of the window frame, and was looking out with an intent grave eye which amused him, and made him curious too. "Because I want to tell you something of how feel, Mr. Digby, and I cannot."--(He had told her not to say _can't_, and now she never did.) "It's all mixed up, and I don't know what comes first; and you will think I am--ungrateful." "Never in the world!" said he heartily. "I shall never think that. I think I know you pretty well, Rotha." Yet he was hardly prepared for the look she gave him; a glance only, but so intent, so warm, so laden with gratitude, ay, and so burdened with a yet deeper feeling, that Mr. Digby was well nigh startled. It was not the flash of brilliancy of which Rotha's eyes were quite capable; it was a rarer thing, the dark glow of a hidden fire, true, and deep, and pure, and unconscious of itself. It gave the young man something to think of. CHAPTER X. L'HOMME PROPOSE.