he might not have been so sure even on that point. But then had he known everything that Elinor knew, and been aware of what it was which Elinor had been summoned by all the force of old fidelity and the honour of her name to do, John would have been too much horrified to have been able to form an opinion. No, poor Elinor was not at all clear in her thoughts--less clear than ever after these revelations--the way before her seemed dark in whatever way she looked at it, complications were round her on every side. She had instinctively, without a word said, given up that idea of flight. Who was it that said the heir to a peerage could not be hid? John had said it, she remembered, and John was always right. If she was to take him away to the uttermost end of the earth, they would seek him out and find him. And then there was--his father, who had known all the time, had known and never disturbed her---- No wonder that poor Elinor’s thoughts were mixed and complicated. She walked up and down the room, not thinking, but letting crowds and flights of thoughts like birds fly through her mind; no longer clear indeed as she had been wont to be, no longer coming to sudden, sharp conclusions, admitting possibilities of which Elinor once upon a time would never have thought. And day by day as he saw her, John Tatham understood her less and less. He did not know what she meant, what she was going to do, what were her sentiments towards her husband, what were her intentions towards her son. He had found out a great deal about the case, merely as a case, and it began to be clear to him where Elinor’s part came in. Elinor Compton could not have appeared on her husband’s behalf, and whether there might not arise a question whether, being now his wife, her evidence could be taken on what had happened before she was his wife, was by no means sure--“Why didn’t they call your mother?” John said, as Mrs. Dennistoun also had said--but he did not at all understand, how could he? the dismay that came over Elinor, and the “Not for the world,” which came from her lips. He had come in to see her in the morning as he went down to his chambers, on the very morning when Pippo, quite unexpected and also not at all desired, was arriving at Euston Square. “It would have been much better,” he said, “in every way if they had called your mother--who of course must know exactly what you know, Elinor, in respect to this matter----” “No,” said Elinor with dry lips. “She knows nothing. She--calculates back by little incidents--she does not remember: I--do----” “That’s natural, I suppose,” said John, with an impatient sigh and a half-angry look. “Still--my aunt----”