“Yes,” he answers, a little sadly, “no two people look at any thing in quite the same way, do they?—­not even husband and wife.”

“I suppose not,” say I, still thinking of the steward.

“Do you know,” he says, leaning his arms and his crossed hands on the table between us, and steadfastly regarding me, “that I never saw you look miserable before, never?  I did not even know that you could!”

“I am not miserable” I answer, rather ashamed of myself, “that is far too strong a word!  Of course I am a little disappointed.”  Then I mumble off into an indistinctness, whence the nouns “House—­warming,” “Bobby,” “Gold Coast,” crop out audibly.

“After all,” he says, still regarding me, and speaking kindly, yet a little coldly too, “you need not look so woebegone.  They say second thoughts are best, do not they?  Well, I have been thinking second thoughts, and—­I have altered my mind.”

“You are going to stay at home?” cry I, at the top of my voice, jumping up in an ecstasy, and beginning to clap my hands.

“No,” he says, gently, “not quite that, as I explained to you before, that is impossible:  but—­do not be downcast—­something nearly as good.  I am going to leave you at home!”

To leave me at home!  My first feeling is one of irrepressible relief.  No sea! no steward! no courtesying ship! no swaying waves after all!  Then comes a quick and strong revulsion, shame, mortification, and pain.

“To—­leave—­me—­at home!” I repeat slowly, hardly yet grasping the idea, “to—­go—­without—­me!—­by yourself?”

“By myself,” he answers, gently.  “You see, it is no thing to me.  I have been by myself for forty-seven years.”

A quick, remorseful pain runs through my heart.

“But you are not by yourself any longer,” I cry, eagerly.  “Why do you talk as if you were?  Do you count me for nothing?”

“For nothing?” he answers, smiling quietly.  “I am glad of an excuse to be rid of you for a bit—­that is it!”

“But is that it?” cry I, excitedly, rising and running round to him.  “If you are sure of that—­if you will swear it to me—­I will not say another word.  I will hold my tongue, and try to bear as well as I can, your having grown tired of me so soon—­but—­” speaking more slowly, and hesitating, “if—­if—­it is that you fancied—­you thought—­you imagined—­ that I did not want to come with you—­”

“My dear,” he says, laughing not at all bitterly, but with a genuine amusement, “I should have been even less bright than I am, if I had not gathered that much.”

I sink down on a chair, and cover my face with my hands.  My attitude is the same as it was ten minutes ago, but oh, how different are my feelings!  What bitter repentance, what acute self-contempt, invade my soul!  As I so sit, I feel an arm round my waist.

“Nancy,” says Sir Roger, “it was ill-naturedly said; do not fret about it; you were not in the least to blame.  I should not like you half so much—­should not think nearly so well of you, if you had been willing to give up all your own people, to throw them lightly over, all of a sudden, for a comparative stranger, treble your age, too”—­(with a sigh)—­“like me.”