“Pray, go away,” said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her eyes glancing immediately from him to the opposite corner of the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the old faded green curtain. Maggie had no sooner uttered this entreaty than she was wretched at the admission it implied; but Stephen turned away at once, and following her upward glance, he saw Philip Wakem sealed in the half-hidden corner, so that he could command little more than that angle of the hall in which Maggie sat. An entirely new thought occurred to Stephen, and linking itself with what he had observed of Wakem’s manner, and with Lucy’s reply to his observation, it convinced him that there had been some former relation between Philip and Maggie beyond that childish one of which he had heard. More than one impulse made him immediately leave the hall and go upstairs to the refreshment-room, where, walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his hand on his shoulder. “Are you studying for a portrait, Phil,” he said, “or for a sketch of that oriel window? By George, it makes a capital bit from this dark corner, with the curtain just marking it off.” “I have been studying expression,” said Philip, curtly. “What! Miss Tulliver’s? It’s rather of the savage-moody order to-day, I think,—something of the fallen princess serving behind a counter. Her cousin sent me to her with a civil offer to get her some refreshment, but I have been snubbed, as usual. There’s natural antipathy between us, I suppose; I have seldom the honour to please her.” “What a hypocrite you are!” said Philip, flushing angrily. “What! because experience must have told me that I’m universally pleasing? I admit the law, but there’s some disturbing force here.” “I am going,” said Philip, rising abruptly. “So am I—to get a breath of fresh air; this place gets oppressive. I think I have done suit and service long enough.” The two friends walked downstairs together without speaking. Philip turned through the outer door into the court-yard; but Stephen, saying, “Oh, by the by, I must call in here,” went on along the passage to one of the rooms at the other end of the building, which were appropriated to the town library. He had the room all to himself, and a man requires nothing less than this when he wants to dash his cap on the table, throw himself astride a chair, and stare at a high brick wall with a frown which would not have been beneath the occasion if he had been slaying “the giant Python.” The conduct that issues from a moral conflict has often so close a resemblance to vice that the distinction escapes all outward judgments founded on a mere comparison of actions. It is clear to you, I hope, that Stephen was not a hypocrite,—capable of deliberate doubleness for a selfish end; and yet his fluctuations between the indulgence of a feeling and the systematic concealment of it might have made a good case in support of Philip’s accusation.