I found my opportunity, when I was out walking with her, on the day after my arrival.

“May I speak to you,” I asked, “about your marriage engagement?”

“Yes,” she said, indifferently, “if you have nothing more interesting to talk about.”

“Will you forgive an old friend and servant of your family, Miss Rachel, if I venture on asking whether your heart is set on this marriage?”

“I am marrying in despair, Mr. Bruff—­on the chance of dropping into some sort of stagnant happiness which may reconcile me to my life.”

Strong language! and suggestive of something below the surface, in the shape of a romance.  But I had my own object in view, and I declined (as we lawyers say) to pursue the question into its side issues.

“Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite can hardly be of your way of thinking,” I said.  “His heart must be set on the marriage at any rate?”

“He says so, and I suppose I ought to believe him.  He would hardly marry me, after what I have owned to him, unless he was fond of me.”

Poor thing! the bare idea of a man marrying her for his own selfish and mercenary ends had never entered her head.  The task I had set myself began to look like a harder task than I had bargained for.

“It sounds strangely,” I went on, “in my old-fashioned ears——­”

“What sounds strangely?” she asked.

“To hear you speak of your future husband as if you were not quite sure of the sincerity of his attachment.  Are you conscious of any reason in your own mind for doubting him?”

Her astonishing quickness of perception, detected a change in my voice, or my manner, when I put that question, which warned her that I had been speaking all along with some ulterior object in view.  She stopped, and taking her arm out of mine, looked me searchingly in the face.

“Mr. Bruff,” she said, “you have something to tell me about Godfrey Ablewhite.  Tell it.”

I knew her well enough to take her at her word.  I told it.

She put her arm again into mine, and walked on with me slowly.  I felt her hand tightening its grasp mechanically on my arm, and I saw her getting paler and paler as I went on—­but, not a word passed her lips while I was speaking.  When I had done, she still kept silence.  Her head drooped a little, and she walked by my side, unconscious of my presence, unconscious of everything about her; lost—­buried, I might almost say—­in her own thoughts.

I made no attempt to disturb her.  My experience of her disposition warned me, on this, as on former occasions, to give her time.