There was a tone of artificiality about his words. This perfunctory touch of his lips on her hand, this formal bow, all these things belonged to that past of the lord of Bindon, when society knew and petted him; and in that past Ellinor felt with fresh acuteness that she had no part. She drew her hand away. “I hope,” she said, “the arrangements may be to your liking.” He glanced at her as if puzzled; then his eye travelled over her figure—an exquisite model of neatness she always was, but in this, her working gown, no more fashionably clad than dairy Moll or Sue. He took up a fold of her sleeve between his first and second finger. “My sister used to be a very fine lady,” said he gently. “And I am none,” cried Ellinor, flushing. Then, gathering the roses into her arms and moving away: “But it matters the less,” she added over her shoulder, “as Lady Lochore and I are not likely to come much across each other.” But David, this new David, a painful enigma to her, touched her detainingly on the shoulder; and in his touch was authority. “On the contrary,” said he, “I beg you will see much of my sister. Dispenser as you are of my hospitality, you must needs see much of her.” The flush had faded. Proud and pale she looked at him long, but his face was as a sealed page to her. What was this turn of fortune’s wheel bringing, glory or abasement? “I must keep my place,” insisted Ellinor. “That will be your place,” he answered. “Pray be ready to receive my guests with me.” She raised her eyes, startled, indeterminate. “I and my frocks are poor company for great ladies,” she said with a scornful dimple. At that he smiled as one smiles upon a child. “You have a certain grey gown,” he said. And, after a little pause, he added: “Some of those roses.” The fragrance of them had come over to him as they moved with her breath. Once more she hesitated for a second, then dropping her eyelids, she said, with mock humility: “It shall be as you order,” and went up the stairs with head erect and steady step, feeling that his gaze was following her. She could hardly have explained to herself why this attitude of David’s, this sudden proof of his strength in forcing himself to become like other people, should cause her so much resentment and so much pain. But she felt that this man of the world was infinitely far removed from the absent star-gazer, from the neglected recluse who had so needed her ministrations. The _rôles_ seemed reversed. It was no longer she who was the protector, the power directing events, no longer she who ruled by right of wisdom and sweet common sense. David had become independent of her. Hardest thing of all, to be no longer indispensable to him! And yet even in this unexpected cup of bitterness there was a redeeming sweet: he had remembered her grey gown, he had noticed that the roses became her.