Lady Janet started. “What makes you think that?” she asked. “I have once or twice caught her in tears. Every now and then--sometimes when she is talking quite gayly--she suddenly changes color and becomes silent and depressed. Just now, when she left the table (didn’t you notice it?), she looked at me in the strangest way--almost as if she was sorry for me. What do these things mean?” Horace’s reply, instead of increasing Lady Janet’s anxiety, seemed to relieve it. He had observed nothing which she had not noticed herself. “You foolish boy!” she said, “the meaning is plain enough. Grace has been out of health for some time past. The doctor recommends change of air. I shall take her away with me.” “It would be more to the purpose,” Horace rejoined, “if I took her away with me. She might consent, if you would only use your influence. Is it asking too much to ask you to persuade her? My mother and my sisters have written to her, and have produced no effect. Do me the greatest of all kindnesses--speak to her to-day!” He paused, and possessing himself of Lady Janet’s hand, pressed it entreatingly. “You have always been so good to me,” he said, softly, and pressed it again. The old lady looked at him. It was impossible to dispute that there were attractions in Horace Holmcroft’s face which made it well worth looking at. Many a woman might have envied him his clear complexion, his bright blue eyes, and the warm amber tint in his light Saxon hair. Men--especially men skilled in observing physiognomy--might have noticed in the shape of his forehead and in the line of his upper lip the signs indicative of a moral nature deficient in largeness and breadth--of a mind easily accessible to strong prejudices, and obstinate in maintaining those prejudices in the face of conviction itself.