“Don’t I?  I can’t account for it.”

“I can.  It’s sympathy with Me.  I am out of spirits too.”

“You!”

“Yes.  After what I saw at Craig Fernie, I grow more and more uneasy about Anne.  You will understand that, I am sure, after what I told you this morning?”

Arnold looked back, in a violent hurry, from Blanche to Milton.  That renewed reference to events at Craig Fernie was a renewed reproach to him for his conduct at the inn.  He attempted to silence her by pointing to Geoffrey.

“Don’t forget,” he whispered, “that there is somebody in the room besides ourselves.”

Blanche shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

“What does he matter?” she asked.  “What does he know or care about Anne?”

There was only one other chance of diverting her from the delicate subject.  Arnold went on reading headlong, two lines in advance of the place at which he had left off, with more sound and less sense than ever: 

     “In the beginning how the heavens and earth. 
     Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill—­”

At “Sion hill,” Blanche interrupted him again.

“Do wait a little, Arnold.  I can’t have Milton crammed down my throat in that way.  Besides I had something to say.  Did I tell you that I consulted my uncle about Anne?  I don’t think I did.  I caught him alone in this very room.  I told him all I have told you.  I showed him Anne’s letter.  And I said, ‘What do you think?’ He took a little time (and a great deal of snuff) before he would say what he thought.  When he did speak, he told me I might quite possibly be right in suspecting Anne’s husband to be a very abominable person.  His keeping himself out of my way was (just as I thought) a suspicious circumstance, to begin with.  And then there was the sudden extinguishing of the candles, when I first went in.  I thought (and Mrs. Inchbare thought) it was done by the wind.  Sir Patrick suspects it was done by the horrid man himself, to prevent me from seeing him when I entered the room.  I am firmly persuaded Sir Patrick is right.  What do you think?”

“I think we had better go on,” said Arnold, with his head down over his book.  “We seem to be forgetting Milton.”

“How you do worry about Milton!  That last bit wasn’t as interesting as the other.  Is there any love in Paradise Lost?”

“Perhaps we may find some if we go on.”

“Very well, then.  Go on.  And be quick about it.”

Arnold was so quick about it that he lost his place.  Instead of going on he went back.  He read once more: 

     “In the beginning how the heavens and earth. 
     Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill—­”

“You read that before,” said Blanche.

“I think not.”

“I’m sure you did.  When you said ‘Sion hill’ I recollect I thought of the Methodists directly.  I couldn’t have thought of the Methodists, if you hadn’t said ‘Sion hill.’  It stands to reason.”