At this she turns as white as death. ‘Is there? Have you seen—have you’—she looks as though she is about to faint—‘heard anything?’ ‘Nothing—nothing at all!’ exclaims he quickly, a little shocked at her agitation, that seems excessive. ‘Do not be frightened; I assure you I know as little of anyone connected with you as I know of yourself.’ Here again he gives her an opening, if she wishes to make a declaration of any sort, and again she remains mute. There is something even obstinately silent in her whole air. Her hands in her lap are tightly clasped, as though to help her to keep her secret to all eternity. ‘You will not confide in me, I see,’ says he, with a little contemptuous shrug; ‘and, after all, there is no earthly reason why you should. I am as great a stranger to you as you are to me, and if I spoke at all it was, believe me, because I fancied I might be of some assistance to you. But women nowadays have taken the reins into their own hands, and I have no doubt that you will be able to manage your own affairs to perfection. In the meantime, however, if I can be of the slightest use to you in looking out for a suitable home, for instance, I hope you understand I shall be delighted to do all I can.’ The girl has drawn nearer during this speech, and is now standing before him, the frightened eyes uplifted and her breath coming short and fast. ‘You mean—but here—can I not—might I not—a home, you said——’ ‘Well, yes,’ says Wyndham. ‘A home where you might have a companion and be very comfortable; but not here, you know.’ ‘But——’ ‘You can’t stay here, I’m afraid,’ says Wyndham, who, between his anger and his suspicions of her, is beginning to wish he had never been born. The girl turns away from him, in so far that only her profile now can be seen, whilst her right hand has caught hold of the back of a chair near her, as if for support. ‘But why?’ asks she, in a low tone. ‘Mrs. Moriarty likes me to be here.’ ‘But, you see,’ says Wyndham gravely, ‘it is my house, and not Mrs. Moriarty’s.’ ‘Yes.’ She looks at him as if hardly understanding, but presently an expression grows upon her face that gives him to know that she thinks him churlish. ‘It is quite a big house,’ says she. There is a pause—a pause in which he tells himself that evidently up to this she had been accustomed to houses of very cramped limits. The Circular Road in Dublin would supply such houses, built for respectable artisans and clerks in commercial places, and the best of the decent strata that cover the earth and are of the earth earthy. The Circular Road, or some other road, has no doubt supplied the kind of house to which the girl has been accustomed—this girl, with her pale patrician face and her singular strength of mind. It is she who at last breaks the silence. ‘There is plenty of room for me,’ says she. ‘I know—of course I know that,’ says Wyndham hurriedly. ‘But then, you see, it—it wouldn’t do, you see.’