“Yes, Philip,” she said, with her childish contrition when he used to chide her, “you are right, I know. I do always think too much of my own feelings, and not enough of others’,—not enough of yours. I had need have you always to find fault with me and teach me; so many things have come true that you used to tell me.” Maggie was resting her elbow on the table, leaning her head on her hand and looking at Philip with half-penitent dependent affection, as she said this; while he was returning her gaze with an expression that, to her consciousness, gradually became less vague,—became charged with a specific recollection. Had his mind flown back to something that _she_ now remembered,—something about a lover of Lucy’s? It was a thought that made her shudder; it gave new definiteness to her present position, and to the tendency of what had happened the evening before. She moved her arm from the table, urged to change her position by that positive physical oppression at the heart that sometimes accompanies a sudden mental pang. “What is the matter, Maggie? Has something happened?” Philip said, in inexpressible anxiety, his imagination being only too ready to weave everything that was fatal to them both. “No, nothing,” said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip must not have that odious thought in his mind; she would banish it from her own. “Nothing,” she repeated, “except in my own mind. You used to say I should feel the effect of my starved life, as you called it; and I do. I am too eager in my enjoyment of music and all luxuries, now they are come to me.” She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while Philip watched her, really in doubt whether she had anything more than this general allusion in her mind. It was quite in Maggie’s character to be agitated by vague self-reproach. But soon there came a violent well-known ring at the door-bell resounding through the house. “Oh, what a startling announcement!” said Maggie, quite mistress of herself, though not without some inward flutter. “I wonder where Lucy is.” Lucy had not been deaf to the signal, and after an interval long enough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquiries, she herself ushered Stephen in. “Well, old fellow,” he said, going straight up to Philip and shaking him heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in passing, “it’s glorious to have you back again; only I wish you’d conduct yourself a little less like a sparrow with a residence on the house-top, and not go in and out constantly without letting the servants know. This is about the twentieth time I’ve had to scamper up those countless stairs to that painting-room of yours, all to no purpose, because your people thought you were at home. Such incidents embitter friendship.” “I’ve so few visitors, it seems hardly worth while to leave notice of my exit and entrances,” said Philip, feeling rather oppressed just then by Stephen’s bright strong presence and strong voice.