That Sidney would be impelled to such a decision as this she had never imagined. His reserve whilst yet she was in ignorance of her true position she could understand: also his delaying for a while even after everything had been explained to her. But that he should draw away from her altogether seemed inexplicable, for it implied a change in him which nothing had prepared her to think possible. Unaltered in his love, he refused to share the task of her life, to aid in the work which he regarded with such fervent sympathy. Her mind was not subtle enough to conceive those objections to Michael’s idea which had weighed with Sidney almost from the first, for though she had herself shrunk from the great undertaking, it was merely in weakness—a reason she never dreamt of attributing to him. Nor had she caught as much as a glimpse of those base, scheming interests, contact with which had aroused Sidney’s vehement disgust. Was her father to be trusted? This was the first question that shaped itself in her mind. He did not like Sidney; that she had felt all along, as well as the reciprocal coldness on Sidney’s part. But did his unfriendliness go so far as to prompt him to intervene with untruths? ‘Of course you can’t say a word to him’—that remark would bear an evil interpretation, which her tormented mind did not fail to suggest. Moreover, he had seemed so anxious that she should not broach the subject with her grandfather. But what constrained her to silence? If, indeed, he had nothing but her happiness at heart, he could not take it ill that she should seek to understand the whole truth, and Michael must tell her whether Sidney had indeed thus spoken to him. Before she had obtained any show of control over her agitation Michael came into the room. Evening was the old man’s best time, and when he had kept his own chamber through the day he liked to come and sit with Jane as she had her supper. ‘Didn’t I hear your father’s voice?’ he asked, as he moved slowly to his accustomed chair. ‘Yes. He couldn’t stay.’ Jane stood in an attitude of indecision. Having seated himself, Michael glanced at her. His regard had not its old directness; it seemed apprehensive, as if seeking to probe her thought. ‘Has Miss Lant sent you the book she promised?’ ‘Yes, grandfather.’ This was a recently published volume dealing with charitable enterprise in some part of London. Michael noticed with surprise the uninterested tone of Jane’s reply. Again he looked at her, and more searchingly. ‘Would you like to read me a little of it?’ She reached the book from a side-table, drew near, and stood turning the pages. The confusion of her mind was such that she could not have read a word with understanding. Then she spoke, involuntarily. ‘Grandfather, has Mr. Kirkwood said anything more—about me?’