“For we’ve never in the least known what!” Mrs. Grose declared. “For wickedness. For what else—when he’s so clever and beautiful and perfect? Is he stupid? Is he untidy? Is he infirm? Is he ill-natured? He’s exquisite—so it can be only _that_; and that would open up the whole thing. After all,” I said, “it’s their uncle’s fault. If he left here such people—!” “He didn’t really in the least know them. The fault’s mine.” She had turned quite pale. “Well, you shan’t suffer,” I answered. “The children shan’t!” she emphatically returned. I was silent awhile; we looked at each other. “Then what am I to tell him?” “You needn’t tell him anything. _I’ll_ tell him.” I measured this. “Do you mean you’ll write—?” Remembering she couldn’t, I caught myself up. “How do you communicate?” “I tell the bailiff. _He_ writes.” “And should you like him to write our story?” My question had a sarcastic force that I had not fully intended, and it made her, after a moment, inconsequently break down. The tears were again in her eyes. “Ah, miss, _you_ write!” “Well—tonight,” I at last answered; and on this we separated. XVII I went so far, in the evening, as to make a beginning. The weather had changed back, a great wind was abroad, and beneath the lamp, in my room, with Flora at peace beside me, I sat for a long time before a blank sheet of paper and listened to the lash of the rain and the batter of the gusts. Finally I went out, taking a candle; I crossed the passage and listened a minute at Miles’s door. What, under my endless obsession, I had been impelled to listen for was some betrayal of his not being at rest, and I presently caught one, but not in the form I had expected. His voice tinkled out. “I say, you there—come in.” It was a gaiety in the gloom! I went in with my light and found him, in bed, very wide awake, but very much at his ease. “Well, what are _you_ up to?” he asked with a grace of sociability in which it occurred to me that Mrs. Grose, had she been present, might have looked in vain for proof that anything was “out.” I stood over him with my candle. “How did you know I was there?” “Why, of course I heard you. Did you fancy you made no noise? You’re like a troop of cavalry!” he beautifully laughed. “Then you weren’t asleep?” “Not much! I lie awake and think.” I had put my candle, designedly, a short way off, and then, as he held out his friendly old hand to me, had sat down on the edge of his bed. “What is it,” I asked, “that you think of?” “What in the world, my dear, but _you?_” “Ah, the pride I take in your appreciation doesn’t insist on that! I had so far rather you slept.” “Well, I think also, you know, of this queer business of ours.” I marked the coolness of his firm little hand. “Of what queer business, Miles?” “Why, the way you bring me up. And all the rest!”