vehement disgust.  Was her father to be trusted?  This was the first question that shaped itself in her mind.  He did not like Sidney; that she had felt all along, as well as the reciprocal coldness on Sidney’s part.  But did his unfriendliness go so far as to prompt him to intervene with untruths?  ’Of course you can’t say a word to him’—­that remark would bear an evil interpretation, which her tormented mind did not fail to suggest.  Moreover, he had seemed so anxious that she should not broach the subject with her grandfather.  But what constrained her to silence?  If, indeed, he had nothing but her happiness at heart, he could not take it ill that she should seek to understand the whole truth, and Michael must tell her whether Sidney had indeed thus spoken to him.

Before she had obtained any show of control over her agitation Michael came into the room.  Evening was the old man’s best time, and when he had kept his own chamber through the day he liked to come and sit with Jane as she had her supper.

‘Didn’t I hear your father’s voice?’ he asked, as he moved slowly to his accustomed chair.

‘Yes.  He couldn’t stay.’

Jane stood in an attitude of indecision.  Having seated himself, Michael glanced at her.  His regard had not its old directness; it seemed apprehensive, as if seeking to probe her thought.

‘Has Miss Lent sent you the book she promised?’

‘Yes, grandfather.’

This was a recently published volume dealing with charitable enterprise in some part of London.  Michael noticed with surprise the uninterested tone of Jane’s reply.  Again he looked at her, and more searchingly.

‘Would you like to read me a little of it?’

She reached the book from a side-table, drew near, and stood turning the pages.  The confusion of her mind was such that she could not have read a word with understanding.  Then she spoke, involuntarily.

‘Grandfather, has Mr. Kirkwood said anything more—­about me?’

The words made painful discord in her cars, but instead of showing heightened colour she grew pallid.  Holding the book partly open, she felt all her nerves and muscles strained as if in some physical effort; her feet were rooted to the spot.

‘Have you heard anything from him?’ returned the old man, resting his hands on the sides of the easy-chair.

’Father has been speaking about him.  He says Mr. Kirkwood has told you something.’

‘Yes.  Come and sit down by me, Jane.’

She could not move nearer.  Though unable to form a distinct conception, she felt a foreboding of what must come to pass.  The dread failure of strength was more than threatening her; her heart was sinking, and by no effort of will could she summon the thoughts that should aid her against herself.

‘What has your father told you?’ Michael asked, when he perceived her distress.  He spoke with a revival of energy, clearly, commandingly.