“One thing,” she said hastily, drawing him towards her, and then holding him back, as though shrinking always from the feeling she could so readily evoke.  “I must say it; you oughtn’t to give me so much money, it is too much.  Suppose I use it for things you don’t like?”

“You won’t,” he said gaily.

She tried to push the subject further, but he would not have it.

“I am all for free discussion,” he said in the same tone; “but sometimes debate must be stifled.  I am going to stifle it!”

And stooping, he kissed her, lightly, tremulously.  His manner showed her once more what she was to him—­how sacred, how beloved.  First it touched and shook her; then she sprang up with a sudden disagreeable sense of moral disadvantage—­inferiority—­coming she knew not whence, and undoing for the moment all that buoyant consciousness of playing the magnanimous, disinterested part which had possessed her throughout the talk in the drawing-room.

The others reappeared, headed by their lamp:  Wharton first, scanning the two who had lingered behind, with his curious eyes, so blue and brilliant under the white forehead and the curls.

“We have been making the wildest shots at your ancestors, Miss Boyce,” he said.  “Frank professed to know everything about the pictures, and turned out to know nothing.  I shall ask for some special coaching to-morrow morning.  May I engage you—­ten o’clock?”

Marcella made some evasive answer, and they all sauntered back to the drawing-room.

“Shall you be at work to-morrow, Raeburn?” said Wharton.

“Probably,” said Aldous drily.  Marcella, struck by the tone, looked back, and caught an expression and bearing which were as yet new to her in the speaker.  She supposed they represented the haughtiness natural in the man of birth and power towards the intruder, who is also the opponent.

Instantly the combative critical mood returned upon her, and the impulse to assert herself by protecting Wharton.  His manner throughout the talk in the drawing-room had been, she declared to herself, excellent—­modest, and self-restrained, comparing curiously with the boyish egotism and self-abandonment he had shown in their tete-a-tete.

* * * * *

“Why, there is Mr. Boyce,” exclaimed Wharton, hurrying forward as they entered the drawing-room.

There, indeed, on the sofa was the master of the house, more ghastly black and white than ever, and prepared to claim to the utmost the tragic pre-eminence of illness.  He shook hands coldly with Aldous, who asked after his health with the kindly brevity natural to the man who wants no effusions for himself in public or personal matters, and concludes therefore that other people desire none.

“You are better, papa?” said Marcella, taking his hand.

“Certainly, my dear—­better for morphia.  Don’t talk of me.  I have got my death warrant, but I hope I can take it quietly.  Evelyn, I specially asked to have that thin cushion brought down from my dressing-room.  It is strange that no one pays any attention to my wants.”