Michael was in his own chamber, which he had not left this morning. On going to the parlour Jane found her visitor standing in expectancy. Yes, something had happened; it needed but to look at him to be convinced of that. And before a word was spoken Jane knew that his coming had reference to Clara Hewett, knew it with the strangest certainty. ‘I didn’t go to work this morning,’ Sidney began, ‘because I was very anxious to see you—alone. I have something to speak about—to tell you.’ ‘Let us sit down.’ Sidney waited till he met her look; she regarded him without self-consciousness, without any effort to conceal her agitated interest. ‘You see young Hewett and his wife sometimes. Have you heard from either of them that Clara Hewett is living with her father again?’ ‘Not from them. A person in their house spoke about it yesterday. It was the first I had heard.’ ‘Spoke of Miss Hewett? In a gossiping way, do you mean?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then you know what has happened to her?’ ‘If the woman told the truth.’ There was silence. ‘Miss Snowdon—’ ‘Oh, I don’t like you to speak so. You used to call me Jane.’ He looked at her in distress. She had spoken impulsively, but not with the kind of emotion the words seem to imply. It was for his sake, not for hers, that she broke that formal speech. ‘You called me so when I was a child, Mr. Kirkwood,’ she continued, smiling for all she was so pale. ‘It sounds as if something had altered. You’re my oldest friend, and won’t you always be so? Whatever you’re going to tell me, surely it doesn’t prevent us from being friends, just the same as always?’ He had not seen her in her weakness, the night before last. As little as he could imagine that, was he able to estimate the strength with which she now redeemed her womanly dignity. His face told her what he had to disclose. No question now of proving herself superior to common feelings; it was Sidney who made appeal to her, and her heart went forth to grant him all he desired. ‘Jane—dear, good Jane—you remember what I said to you in the garden at Danbury—that I had forgotten her. I thought it was true. But you know what a terrible thing has befallen her. I should be less than a man if I could say that she is nothing to me.’ ‘Have you spoken to her?’ ‘I have asked her to be my wife. Jane, if I had come to you yesterday, before going to her, and had told you what I meant to do, and explained all I felt, how the love of years ago had grown in me again, wouldn’t you have given me a friendly hand?’ ‘Just like I do now. Do you think I have forgotten one night when she stood by me and saved me from cruel treatment, and then nursed me when I fell ill?’