‘Come, that is being absolutely morbid,’ says Wyndham, with a touch of impatience. ‘The man is gone, believe me. And even if not, what claim has he on you?’ ‘That I don’t know, but he said he had a “hold on me” until I was twenty-one, and I am only eighteen’—with a sigh that is evidently full of a desire to wish away three good years of her young life. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ says Wyndham promptly. ‘And in the meantime, now that in my opinion he is well out of the way, why don’t you try to enjoy your life—to see people, to—’ ‘I am enjoying life. Oh’—with a sudden, quick, happy smile—‘if you only knew how much!’ ‘Yet you confess to loneliness—to a desire to see those around you.’ ‘Yes.’ She colours and taps her foot on the ground, then laughs. ‘And now I have seen them,’ says she, with a swift upward glance at him that lasts only for a moment. ‘The Barrys, yes; but there are others, and now you know the Barrys you can easily know everyone else down here; you can make friends for yourself, and go out, and pay visits, and—’ ‘Oh no!’ cries she quickly, with a sudden terror, indeed; ‘no, no’—putting up her hands—‘I can’t—I won’t—I’ll never go out. Mr. Wyndham, don’t—don’t ask me to do that.’ It is in Wyndham’s mind to say to her that it would be of considerable benefit to his social look-out if she would only consent to know people, and make herself known, and break through this deplorable attitude of secrecy that she has taken up; but a glance at her young frightened face deters him. He shrugs his shoulders over his own ill-luck, and bears it. ‘I—you are angry with me again,’ says Ella nervously; ‘but I can’t go out of this place. I can’t, indeed, unless you could send me somewhere across the sea where he could never find me. But to leave this!’ Her lips quiver, and she turns aside. ‘Nonsense! Who wants you to leave this?’ says Wyndham roughly. ‘But I think you ought to have some common-sense about you. You have no one to give you advice of any sort, and you are about the most headstrong girl I ever met.’ ‘I have taken your advice,’ says she, ‘always—always.’ Her face is still turned away, and her voice sounds stifled. ‘Always when it suited you; but not now, when it might be of some use. Of course, I can see quite plainly that that old idiot Mrs. Moriarty is backing you up in all your nonsensical fears, but there will soon be an end to that. I have engaged a lady to come and live with you, and give you lessons, and knock some sense into your head, I hope.’ ‘A lady to live with me? You have found her, then? You meant it?’ ‘Naturally I meant it, and I only hope she will be able to show you the folly of your ways—a matter in which I have most signally failed.’