Had it been, then, simply the presence of Mr. Rainham which had leavened the company, and the personal fascination of his friendship—­indefinable and unobtrusive as that had been—­which had enabled her to adopt for the moment their urbane, impartial point of view?

Perhaps there had been a particle of truth in the charge so solemnly levelled at her by Mr. Sylvester:  it was a false position that she maintained.

The attitude of Lady Garnett and her intimates, of persons (the phrase of Steele’s recurred to her as meeting it appropriately) “who had seen the world enough to undervalue it with good breeding,” must seem to her at last a little sterile when she was conscious—­never more than now—­of how clearly and swiftly the healthy young blood coursed through her veins, dissipating any morbid imaginations that she might feel inclined to cherish.  She looked out at life, in her conviction that so little of it had yet been lived, that for her it might easily be a long affair, with eyes which were still full of interest and, to a certain degree, of hope; and this did not detract from at least one “impossible loyalty,” from which it seemed to her she would never waver.  And Charles Sylvester’s infelicitous proposal recurred to her, and she was forced to ask herself whether, after all, it was quite so infelicitous as it seemed.  Might not some sort of solution to the difficulties which oppressed her be offered by that alliance?  Conscientiously she considered the question, and for a long time; but with the closest consideration the prospect refused to cheer her, remained singularly uninviting.  And yet, arid as the notion appeared of a procession hand-in-hand through life with a husband so soberly precise, to the tune of political music, she was still hardly decided upon her answer when she at length reluctantly left her comfortable fire and composed herself to sleep.

It was not until a day or two later that a prolonged visit from the subject of these hesitations reminded her—­perhaps more forcibly than before—­that, however in his absence she might oscillate, in his actual presence a firm negative was, after all, the only answer which could ever suffice.

At the close of what seemed a singularly long afternoon, during which her aunt, who was confined to her room with a bad headache, had left to her the burden of entertaining, Mary came to this conclusion.

Mr. Sylvester had come with the first of her callers, and had made no sign of moving when the last had gone.  And in the silence, a little portentous, which had ensued when they were left together, the girl had read easily the reason of his protracted stay.  She glanced furtively, with a suggestion of weariness in her eyes, at the little jewelled watch on her wrist, wondering if in the arrival of a belated visitor there might not still be some respite.

“You are not going out?” he asked tentatively, detecting her.  “I expect my sister will be here soon.”