He stood up, and went to the windows; then came back with uncertain step.

“You’ll tell the Spences I’ve been?”

“I think I had better.  They will know, of course, that I have had a visitor.”

“Should I see them?” he asked, with hesitation.

“Just as you please.”

“I shall have to, sooner or later.  Why not now?”

Miriam pondered.

“I’ll go and see if they are at leisure.”

During her absence, Elgar examined the books on the table.  He turned over each one with angry mutterings.  The chapel plans were no longer lying about; only yesterday Miriam had rolled them up and put them away—­temporarily.  Before the “St. Cecilia” he stood in thoughtful observation, and was still there when Miriam returned.  She had a look of uneasiness.

“Miss Doran and her aunt are with Mrs. Spence, Reuben.”

“Oh, in that case—­” he began carelessly, with a wave of the arm.

“But they will be glad to see you.”

“Indeed?  I look rather seedy, I’m afraid.”

“Take off your overcoat.”

“I’m all grimy.  I came here straight from the railway.”

“Then go into my bedroom and make yourself presentable.”

A few moments sufficed for this.  As she waited for his return, Miriam stood with knitted brows, her eyes fixed on the floor.  Reuben reappeared, and she examined him.

“You’re bitterly ashamed of me, Miriam.”

She made no reply, and at once led the way along the corridor.

Mrs. Spence had met Reuben in London, since her marriage; by invitation he came to her house, but neglected to repeat the visit.  To Mrs. Lessingham he was personally a stranger.  But neither of these ladies received the honour of much attention from him for the first few moments after he had entered the room; his eyes and thoughts were occupied with the wholly unexpected figure of Cecily Doran.  In his recollection, she was a slight, pale, shy little girl, fond of keeping in corners with a book, and seemingly marked out for a life of dissenting piety and provincial surroundings.  She had interested him little in those days, and seldom did anything to bring herself under his notice.  He last saw her when she was about twelve.  Now he found himself in the presence of a beautiful woman, every line of whose countenance told of instruction, thought, spirit; whose bearing was refined beyond anything he had yet understood by that word; whose modest revival of old acquaintance made his hand thrill at her touch, and his heart beat confusedly as he looked into her eyes.  With difficulty he constrained himself to common social necessities, and made show of conversing with the elder ladies.  He wished to gaze steadily at the girl’s face, and connect past with present; to revive his memory of six years ago, and convince himself that such development was possible.  At the same time he became aware of a reciprocal curiosity in Cecily.  When he turned towards her she met his glance, and when he spoke she gave him a smile of pleased attentiveness.  The consequence was that he soon began to speak freely, to pick his words, no balance his sentences and shun the commonplace.