Impatient to be gone, she lingered minute after minute, and broke hurriedly from his restraining arms at last.  The second outer door, which Tarrant had closed on her entrance, surprised her by its prison-like massiveness.  In the wooden staircase she stopped timidly, but at the exit her eyes turned to an inscription above, which she had just glanced at when arriving:  Surrexit e flammis, and a date.  Nancy had no Latin, but guessed an interpretation from the last word.  Through the little court, with its leafy plane-trees and white-worn cobble-stones, she walked with bent head, hearing the roar of Holborn through the front archway, and breathing more freely when she gained the quiet garden at the back of the Inn.

Tarrant’s step sounded behind her.  Looking up she asked the meaning of the inscription she had seen.

’You don’t know Latin?  Well, why should you? Surrexit e flammis, “It rose again from the flames.”

’I thought it might be something like that.  You will be patient with my ignorance?’

A strange word upon Nancy’s lips.  No mortal ere this had heard her confess to ignorance.

‘But you know the modern languages?’ said Tarrant, smiling.

‘Yes.  That is, a little French and German—­a very little German.’

Tarrant mused, seemingly with no dissatisfaction.

CHAPTER 4

In her brother’s looks and speech Nancy detected something mysterious.  Undoubtedly he was keeping a secret from her, and there could be just as little doubt that he would not keep it long.  Whenever she questioned him about the holiday at Scarborough, he put on a smile unlike any she had ever seen on his face, so profoundly thoughtful was it, so loftily reserved.  On the subject of Mrs. Damerel he did not choose to be very communicative; Nancy gathered little more than she had learnt from his letter.  But very plainly the young man held himself in higher esteem than hitherto; very plainly he had learnt to think of ‘the office’ as a burden or degradation, from which he would soon escape.  Prompted by her own tormenting conscience, his sister wondered whether Fanny French had anything to do with the mystery; but this seemed improbable.  She mentioned Fanny’s name one evening.

‘Do you see much of her?’

‘Not much,’ was the dreamy reply.  ‘When are you going to call?’

‘Oh, not at present,’ said Nancy.

‘You’ve altered again, then?’

She vouchsafed no answer.

‘There’s something I think I ought to tell you,’ said Horace, speaking as though he were the elder and felt a responsibility.  ‘People have been talking about you and Mr. Crewe.’

‘What!’ She flashed into excessive anger.  ‘Who has been talking?’

’The people over there.  Of course I know it’s all nonsense.  At least’—­he raised his eyebrows—­’I suppose it is.’

‘I should suppose so,’ said Nancy, with vehement scorn.