So, in spite of Myrtilla’s efforts to make friends, the conversation sustained a distinct loss in sprightliness by Angel’s arrival.

Myrtilla, perhaps divining a little of the truth, rose to go.

“Well, I’m afraid it’s quite a long good-bye,” she said.

“Oh, you’re going away?” said Angel, with a shade of relief involuntarily in her voice.

“Oh, yes, perhaps before we meet again, you and Henry will be married.  I’m sure I sincerely hope so.”

“Thank you,” said Angel, somewhat coldly.

“Well, good-bye, Henry,” said Myrtilla,—­it was rather a strangled good-bye,—­and then, in an evil moment, she caught sight of the Dante’s head which, hidden in a recess, she had not noticed before.  “I see you’re still faithful to the Dante,” she said; “that’s sweet of you,—­good-bye, good-bye, Miss Flower, Angel, perhaps you’ll let me say, good-bye.”

When she had gone there seemed a curious constraint in the air.  You might have said that the consistency of the air had been doubled.  Gravitation was at least twice as many pounds as usual to the square inch.  Every little movement seemed heavy as though the medium had been water instead of air.  As Henry raised his hands to help Angel off with her jacket, they seemed weighted with lead.

“No, thank you,” said Angel, “I won’t take it off.  I can’t stay long.”

“Why, dear, what do you mean?  I thought you were going to stay the evening with me.  I’ve quite a long new chapter to read to you.”

“I’m sorry, Henry,—­but I find I can’t.”

“Why, dear, how’s that?  Won’t you tell me the reason?  Has anything happened?”

Angel stood still in the middle of the room, with her face as firmly miserable as she could make it.

“Won’t you tell me?” Henry pleaded.  “Won’t you speak to me?  Come, dear—­what’s the matter?”

“You know well enough, Henry, what’s the matter!” came an unexpected flash of speech.

“Indeed, I don’t.  I know of no reason whatever.  How should I?”

“Well, then, Mrs. Williamson’s the matter!—­’Myrtilla,’ as you call her.  Something told me it was like this all along, though I couldn’t bear to doubt you, and so I put it away.  I wonder how often she’s been here when I have known nothing about it.”

“This is the very first time she has ever set foot in these rooms,” said Henry, growing cold in his turn.  “I’ll give you my word of honour, if you need it.”

“I don’t want to hear any more.  I’m going.  Good-bye.”

“Going, Angel?” said Henry, standing between her and the door.  “What can you mean?  See now,—­give your brains a chance!  You’re not thinking in the least.  You’ve just let yourself go—­for no reason at all.  You’ll be sorry to-morrow.”

“Reason enough, I should think, when I find that you love another woman!”

“I love Myrtilla Williamson!  It’s a lie, Angel—­and you ought to be ashamed to say it.  It’s unworthy of you.”