The consequence was that he wrote an offer, which he found a far more perplexing piece of composition than a sermon; a real hearty expression of love, going on, over all obstacles, to a straightforward explanation of his present prospects and future hopes, and winding up with the information that on the succeeding morning he would call to know whether he might speak to Mr. Wilkins on the subject of this letter.  It was given to Ellinor in the evening, as she was sitting with Miss Monro in the library.  Mr. Wilkins was dining out, she hardly knew where, as it was a sudden engagement, of which he had sent word from the office—­a gentleman’s dinner-party, she supposed, as he had dressed in Hamley without coming home.  Ellinor turned over the letter when it was brought to her, as some people do when they cannot recognise the handwriting, as if to discover from paper or seal what two moments would assure them of, if they opened the letter and looked at the signature.  Ellinor could not guess who had written it by any outward sign; but the moment she saw the name “Herbert Livingstone,” the meaning of the letter flashed upon her and she coloured all over.  She put the letter away, unread, for a few minutes, and then made some excuse for leaving the room and going upstairs.  When safe in her bed-chamber, she read the young man’s eager words with a sense of self-reproach.  How must she, engaged to one man, have been behaving to another, if this was the result of a single evening’s interview?  The self-reproach was unjustly bestowed; but with that we have nothing to do.  She made herself very miserable; and at last went down with a heavy heart to go on with Dante, and rummage up words in the dictionary.  All the time she seemed to Miss Monro to be plodding on with her Italian more diligently and sedately than usual, she was planning in her own mind to speak to her father as soon as he returned (and he had said that he should not be late), and beg him to undo the mischief she had done by seeing Mr. Livingstone the next morning, and frankly explaining the real state of affairs to him.  But she wanted to read her letter again, and think it all over in peace; and so, at an early hour, she wished Miss Monro good-night, and went up into her own room above the drawing-room, and overlooking the flower-garden and shrubbery-path to the stable-yard, by which her father was sure to return.  She went upstairs and studied her letter well, and tried to recall all her speeches and conduct on that miserable evening—­as she thought it then—­not knowing what true misery was.  Her head ached, and she put out the candle, and went and sat on the window-seat, looking out into the moonlit garden, watching for her father.  She opened the window; partly to cool her forehead, partly to enable her to call down softly when she should see him coming along.  By-and-by the door from the stable-yard into the shrubbery clicked and opened, and in a moment she saw Mr. Wilkins moving through the bushes; but not alone, Mr. Dunster was with him, and the two were talking together in rather excited tones, immediately lost to hearing, however, as they entered Mr. Wilkins’s study by the outer door.