Presently she answered, abruptly and scornfully,—­

“Mr. Langdon is a gentleman, and would not vex me as you do.”

“A gentleman!” Dick answered, with the most insulting accent,—­“a gentleman!  Come, Elsie, you’ve got the Dudley blood in your veins, and it doesn’t do for you to call this poor, sneaking schoolmaster a gentleman!”

He stopped short.  Elsie’s bosom was heaving, the faint flush on her cheek was becoming a vivid glow.  Whether it were shame or wrath, he saw that he had reached some deep-lying centre of emotion.  There was no longer any doubt in his mind.  With another girl these signs of confusion might mean little or nothing; with her they were decisive and final.  Elsie Venner loved Bernard Langdon.

The sudden conviction, absolute, overwhelming, which rushed upon him, had wellnigh led to an explosion of wrath, and perhaps some terrible scene which might have fulfilled some of Old Sophy’s predictions.  This, however, would never do.  Dick’s face whitened with his thoughts, but he kept still until he could speak calmly.

“I’ve nothing against the young fellow,” he said; “only I don’t think there’s anything quite good enough to keep the company of people that have the Dudley blood in them.  You a’n’t as proud as I am.  I can’t quite make up my mind to call a schoolmaster a gentleman, though this one may be well enough.  I’ve nothing against him, at any rate.”

Elsie made no answer, but glided out of the room and slid away to her own apartment.  She bolted the door and drew her curtains close.  Then she threw herself on the floor, and fell into a dull, slow ache of passion, without tears, without words, almost without thoughts.  So she remained, perhaps, for a half-hour, at the end of which time it seemed that her passion had become a sullen purpose.  She arose, and, looking cautiously round, went to the hearth, which was ornamented with curious old Dutch tiles, with pictures of Scripture subjects.  One of these represented the lifting of the brazen serpent.  She took a hair-pin from one of her braids, and, insinuating its points under the edge of the tile, raised it from its place.  A small leaden box lay under the tile, which she opened, and, taking from it a little white powder, which she folded in a scrap of paper, replaced the box and the tile over it.

Whether Dick had by any means got a knowledge of this proceeding, or whether he only suspected some unmentionable design on her part, there is no sufficient means of determining.  At any rate, when they met, an hour or two after these occurrences, he could not help noticing how easily she seemed to have got over her excitement.  She was very pleasant with him,—­too pleasant, Dick thought.  It was not Elsie’s way to come out of a fit of anger so easily as that.  She had contrived some way of letting off her spite; that was certain.  Dick was pretty cunning, as Old Sophy had said, and, whether or not he had any means of knowing Elsie’s private intentions, watched her closely, and was on his guard against accidents.