The dress of mourning became her well; it heightened her always noticeable air of refinement, and would have constrained to a reverential tenderness even had not Hilliard naturally checked himself from any bolder demonstration of joy.  She spoke in a low, soft voice, seldom raised her eyes, and manifested a new gentleness very touching to Hilliard, though at the same time, and he knew not how or why, it did not answer to his desire.  A midday meal was in readiness for her; she pretended to eat, but in reality scarce touched the food.

“You must taste old Narramore’s port wine,” said her entertainer.  “The fellow actually sent a couple of dozen.”

She was not to be persuaded; her refusal puzzled and annoyed Hilliard, and there followed a long silence.  Indeed, it surprised him to find how little they could say to each other to-day.  An unknown restraint had come between them.

“Well,” he exclaimed at length, “I wrote to Patty, and she answered.”

“May I see the letter?”

“Of course.  Here it is.”

Eve read it, and smiled with pleasure.

“Doesn’t she write nicely!  Poor girl!”

“Why have you taken so to commiserating her all at once?” Hilliard asked.  “She’s no worse off than she ever was.  Rather better, I think.”

“Life isn’t the same for her since she was in Paris,” said Eve, with peculiar softness.

“Well, perhaps it improved her.”

“Oh, it certainly did!  But it gave her a feeling of discontent for the old life and the people about her.”

“A good many of us have to suffer that.  She’s nothing like as badly off as you are, my dear girl.”

Eve coloured, and kept silence.

“We shall hear of her getting married before long,” resumed the other.  “She told me herself that marriage was the scourge of music-shops—­it carries off their young women at such a rate.”

“She told you that?  It was in one of your long talks together in London?  Patty and you got on capitally together.  It was very natural she shouldn’t care much for men like Mr. Dally afterwards.”

Hilliard puzzled over this remark, and was on the point of making some impatient reply, but discretion restrained him.  He turned to Eve’s own affairs, questioned her closely about her life in the tradesman’s house, and so their conversation followed a smoother course.  Presently, half in jest, Hilliard mentioned Narramore’s building projects.

“But who knows?  It might come to something of importance for me.  In two or three years, if all goes well, such a thing might possibly give me a start.”

A singular solemnity had settled upon Eve’s countenance.  She spoke not a word, and seemed unaccountably ill at ease.

“Do you think I am in the clouds?” said Hilliard.

“Oh, no!  Why shouldn’t you get on—­as other men do?”

But she would not dwell upon the hope, and Hilliard, not a little vexed, again became silent.