With Sara no good quality was suppressed, and he had noticed, even yesterday, a franker, freer, more open bearing in his sister. It was disagreeably apparent again to-day, because, of course, independent outspokenness must be inconvenient and irksome to a selfishness which has had to descend to subterfuge and intrigue, and the conscience of which is no longer a ‘flawless crystal.’ Yes, he recognised the broad, bold seal of Sara’s soul stamped upon this fragile-looking girl. ‘I am glad you have begun to think and speak more reasonably,’ he said coolly. ‘I do not think any differently,’ she flashed out. ‘I think exactly the same; but I have heard things about Miss Bolton which make me think that I ought to pity her, not hate her; and I shall be silent about you and what you have done, because I believe it will be for the best–not because I agree with you.’ ‘I shall be in to lunch at half-past one,’ he said, ‘and afterwards we can go up to the Abbey.’ He could not answer her, but he could not silence her, and his feelings were not enviable. Avice, he perceived had the whip-like tongue of her father, only with her the whip was used to scourge all that was not ‘pure and of good report.’ ‘Very well,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘I shall probably go and see Ellen off to the station, and after that I shall remain indoors.’ ‘Ellen!’ he exclaimed, for he had forgotten her. He went into the kitchen, and gave her the letter which she carried to Sara Ford. He could not meet the woman’s eyes; he could not look either easy, or natural, or self-possessed, as he desired her to give the letter, without adding word or message. He perceived, without looking at her, that she held herself stiffly, and received the envelope and his commission in perfect silence. Then he went into the parlour again, and had taken his hat off the peg, when Avice called out in a voice from which all the liquid tenderness of their first acquaintance had vanished: ‘Jerome, is it permitted me to write to my friend Miss Ford?’ He turned back upon her with scintillating eyes, and teeth set. ‘Avice, take care how you go too far,’ he said. But there was not a drop of craven blood in her veins. There was dauntless defiance in her open glance, as she said: ‘Surely you never wish me to speak of her as _your_ friend again! And I merely ask to hear what you have to say, because I intend to write whatever your answer may be. I wished to take precautions–that’s all. I intend, metaphorically, to cast myself at her feet, and beg her not to visit the sins of my brother too hardly upon me.’ ‘Since you have made up your mind what to do, it was unnecessary to ask me,’ he answered, setting his teeth. ‘I take that as a most gracious permission. I am glad that you see and speak more reasonably,’ she retorted, mocking his own words.