“I shall never hear from you.  And you will forget all about me.”

“No,” said Dorothea, “I shall never forget you.  I have never forgotten any one whom I once knew.  My life has never been crowded, and seems not likely to be so.  And I have a great deal of space for memory at Lowick, haven’t I?” She smiled.

“Good God!” Will burst out passionately, rising, with his hat still in his hand, and walking away to a marble table, where he suddenly turned and leaned his back against it.  The blood had mounted to his face and neck, and he looked almost angry.  It had seemed to him as if they were like two creatures slowly turning to marble in each other’s presence, while their hearts were conscious and their eyes were yearning.  But there was no help for it.  It should never be true of him that in this meeting to which he had come with bitter resolution he had ended by a confession which might be interpreted into asking for her fortune.  Moreover, it was actually true that he was fearful of the effect which such confessions might have on Dorothea herself.

She looked at him from that distance in some trouble, imagining that there might have been an offence in her words.  But all the while there was a current of thought in her about his probable want of money, and the impossibility of her helping him.  If her uncle had been at home, something might have been done through him!  It was this preoccupation with the hardship of Will’s wanting money, while she had what ought to have been his share, which led her to say, seeing that he remained silent and looked away from her—­

“I wonder whether you would like to have that miniature which hangs up-stairs—­I mean that beautiful miniature of your grandmother.  I think it is not right for me to keep it, if you would wish to have it.  It is wonderfully like you.”

“You are very good,” said Will, irritably.  “No; I don’t mind about it.  It is not very consoling to have one’s own likeness.  It would be more consoling if others wanted to have it.”

“I thought you would like to cherish her memory—­I thought—­” Dorothea broke off an instant, her imagination suddenly warning her away from Aunt Julia’s history—­“you would surely like to have the miniature as a family memorial.”

“Why should I have that, when I have nothing else!  A man with only a portmanteau for his stowage must keep his memorials in his head.”

Will spoke at random:  he was merely venting his petulance; it was a little too exasperating to have his grandmother’s portrait offered him at that moment.  But to Dorothea’s feeling his words had a peculiar sting.  She rose and said with a touch of indignation as well as hauteur—­

“You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Ladislaw, to have nothing.”

Will was startled.  Whatever the words might be, the tone seemed like a dismissal; and quitting his leaning posture, he walked a little way towards her.  Their eyes met, but with a strange questioning gravity.  Something was keeping their minds aloof, and each was left to conjecture what was in the other.  Will had really never thought of himself as having a claim of inheritance on the property which was held by Dorothea, and would have required a narrative to make him understand her present feeling.