that would have been haughtiness but for her simplicity.  Even her dress carried out the effect of this simplicity; it was a white muslin, very plain, and the single pink hollyhock that the new guest had slipped into her hair, and Elizabeth had forgotten, gave to her attire the touch of warmth that something in her face showed, too.  It was to Stephen the calmness of flesh and blood, not of marble, that he was looking at; a possibility of life and motion was there, but a possibility beyond his reach.  Some one might arouse her; to him she was impassive.

“You’ve not finished your sentence,” he said, coldly.

“Why should I?  You know the rest of it.”

“Nevertheless, I wish you would say it.”

“Very well.  Mr. Hartly is an agent of Mr. Peterborough.”

“And Mr. Peterborough?”

“My solicitor.”

“You mean your father’s?”

“Yes, and mine, too.”

“Then you have property of your own?”

“Yes.  You did not know it?”

“I heard of it yesterday.  Your property is no concern of mine, you understand.”  She was silent.  Under the circumstances the statement was significant.  “Mr. Hartly came to my father the other day,” he went on.  Still no answer.  “Possibly you knew it?” he persisted.  She lifted her eyes which had been fixed on the cover of a book that her fingers were toying with, and said:—­

“Yes.”

Stephen waited to choose words which should not express too forcibly the impetuous feeling that shone in his eyes and rang in his voice when he spoke.

“Let me put a case to you,” he said, “or, rather, not an indifferent case, but our own, and hear how it sounds in plain English.  How we were married, if married we are, it is useless to speak of; how absolutely nothing we are to one another it is unnecessary also to say.  I appreciate your efforts and your courtesy when I see so plainly that it is with difficulty you can bring yourself even to speak a word to me.”  Elizabeth glanced up a moment, and down again, and her fingers went on idly turning the leaves of the book.  “When I see what social powers you have,” he pursued, “I assure you that I shall regret it for you if fate have denied you a better choice.  But at all events” (constrainedly), “I must thank you for the gracious and successful manner in which you have kept suspicion from becoming certainty before time proves it so.”

She looked fully at him this time, and smiled.

“Gratitude comes hard to you,” she said.  “There is no cause for it in anything I have ever done.  You may be sure it was not to please you at all, but to gratify something in myself that demanded satisfaction.  Now, please explain to me what you mean by your extraordinary summary of things we know too well, and how I have offended you when I am really your friend—­yours, and “—­She stopped, a smile flitted over her face and was gone; it revealed for the unnamed person a gentleness and an affection that perhaps she did not care to have her tones betray.