‘Is Miss Ford at home?’ he asked, like one in a dream; for, up to the moment of pulling the bell, he had been engaged in a puzzling mental debate as to whether he ought or ought not to come—whether duty did not clearly indicate the preferableness of bringing his sister with him, or sending a note to Miss Ford, and not calling at all. He was not in the habit of having difficult and delicate questions of this kind to decide, and he had dallied with this one until the second had arrived in which he must either pull the bell, and go in and see her, or turn back, and go away without seeing her. At which moment the latter alternative had appeared so horrible that he had lost not an instant in availing himself of the former one. Miss Ford was at home. She had returned yesterday, said the woman, and asked him to come upstairs, taking the card he offered her, as she spoke. He accordingly followed her till she threw open a door, and entered a room where it seemed twilight; for it faced due south, and there was only a pale reflection to be seen of the westerly glow. In the window, in a large lounging chair, he saw a woman’s figure, in a light dress, which figure had a book in its hands, and leaned towards the light as if to catch ‘the last pale beam of even.’ He saw how she turned as her servant gave her his card, took it, read it, and rose. Then—he did not quite know how it was—they were alone, standing hand in hand, looking at one another, speechless. In the suddenness and the greatness of the joy of meeting, they could not be conventional. They failed entirely to use the requisite words of polite surprise and delight which, if promptly uttered, conceal so many a throb of joy—so many a spasm of pain. The ‘Really, what a surprise! Where do you come from?’ The answering, ‘Passing through on my way to England, and could not resist the pleasure of calling’—none of it all was forthcoming. The surprise on her side was too real, the joy on both too intense, to leave room for any of those prettinesses. Jerome, looking at her in the softened, yet still clear light, thought he had never seen anything half so beautiful, as she stood with her hand in his, and her eyes fixed with something like fascination in their gaze upon his face. At last, he put his other hand upon hers; and her gaze could no longer meet his deep look, as he said, in a low voice: ‘Then you are not displeased with me for coming? You are glad to see me?’ ‘Very glad,’ she replied, in a lower tone still. But it was as if, with the actual sound of his voice and her own, her presence of mind deserted her. She felt herself begin to tremble. Withdrawing her hand from his, she sank down again upon her chair, and pointed to one beside her, saying, hesitatingly: ‘You have left Ems suddenly. I—I heard of your father’s death, before I left Trockenau. I did not like to intrude or—or I would have written; but——’ ‘But you have thought of me?’ he said, looking intently at her half-averted face.