"What a fool I am!" said Maurice, aloud to himself. "I can't even hear her name mentioned by a servant without wanting to talk about her. Yes, it's clear he loves her--but does she love him? Will she be happy? Yes, of course, she will get her own way. Will that be enough for her? Ah!" turning suddenly round and taking half-a-dozen steps across the room. "It is high time I went. I am a coward and a traitor to linger on here; I will go. Why did I say to-morrow--why have I not settled to go this very day? If I were not so weak and so irresolute, I should be gone by this time. I ought never, knowing what I do know of myself--I ought never to have come back at all." He went back to the fire and sat down again, lifting the little dog back on to his knee. "I shall get over it, I suppose," he murmured. "Men don't die of this sort of thing; she will marry, and she will think me unkind because I shall never come near her; but even if she knew the truth, it would never make any difference to her; and by-and-by I too, I suppose, shall marry." The soliloquy died away into silence. Maurice stroked the dog and looked at the fire dreamily and somewhat drearily. Some one tapped at the door. "Come in! What is it, Mrs. Eccles?" he cried, rousing himself. The door softly opened and there entered, not Mrs. Eccles, but Vera Nevill. Captain Kynaston sprang hastily to his feet. "Oh, Vera! I beg your pardon--how do you do? I suppose you have come for John? You must have missed him; he started for the vicarage half-an-hour ago." "No, I have seen him. I have come to see you, Maurice, if you don't mind." She spoke rather timidly, not looking at him. "I am delighted, of course," he answered, a little constrainedly. Vera stood up on the hearth divesting herself of her long fur cloak; she flung it over the back of a chair, and then took off her hat and gloves. Maurice was strangely unlike himself this morning, for he never offered to help her in these operations, he only stood leaning against the corner of the mantelpiece opposite her, looking at her. Vera stooped down and stroked the little fox-terrier; when she had done so, she raised her head and met his eyes. Did she see, ere he hastily averted them, all the hunger and all the longing that filled them as he watched her? He, in his turn, stooped and replenished the fire. "John sent me to talk to you, Maurice," began Vera, hurriedly, like one repeating a lesson; "he tells me you will not be with us on the 27th; is that so?" "I am sorry, but I am obliged to go away," he answered. "John is dreadfully hurt, Maurice. I hope you will alter your mind." "Is it John for whom you are speaking, or for yourself?" he asked, looking at her. "For both of us. Of course it will be a great disappointment if you are not there. You are his only brother, and he will feel it deeply." "And you; will you feel it?" he persisted. She coloured a little.