“Are you laughing at me?”

“Do I look so?”

Lord Mountfalcon had fine full eyes, and by merely dropping the lids he could appear to endow them with mental expression.

“No, you are not,” said Lucy.  “I must thank you for your forbearance.”

The nobleman went on his honour loudly.

Now it was an object of Lucy’s to have him reading; for his sake, for her sake, and for somebody else’s sake; which somebody else was probably considered first in the matter.  When he was reading to her, he seemed to be legitimizing his presence there; and though she had no doubts or suspicions whatever, she was easier in her heart while she had him employed in that office.  So she rose to fetch the book, laid it open on the table at his lordship’s elbow, and quietly waited to ring for candles when he should be willing to commence.

That evening Lord Mountfalcon could not get himself up to the farce, and he felt a pity for the strangely innocent unprotected child with anguish hanging over her, that withheld the words he wanted to speak, or insinuate.  He sat silent and did nothing.

“What I do not like him for,” said Lucy, meditatively, “is his changing his religion.  He would have been such a hero, but for that.  I could have loved him.”

“Who is it you could have loved, Mrs. Feverel?” Lord Mountfalcon asked.

“The Emperor Julian.”

“Oh! the Emperor Julian!  Well, he was an apostate but then, you know, he meant what he was about.  He didn’t even do it for a woman.”

“For a woman!” cried Lucy.  “What man would for a woman?”

“I would.”

“You, Lord Mountfalcon?”

“Yes.  I’d turn Catholic to-morrow.”

“You make me very unhappy if you say that, my lord.”

“Then I’ll unsay it.”

Lucy slightly shuddered.  She put her hand upon the bell to ring for lights.

“Do you reject a convert, Mrs. Feverel?” said the nobleman.

“Oh yes! yes!  I do.  One who does not give his conscience I would not have.”

“If he gives his heart and body, can he give more?”

Lucy’s hand pressed the bell.  She did not like the doubtful light with one who was so unscrupulous.  Lord Mountfalcon had never spoken in this way before.  He spoke better, too.  She missed the aristocratic twang in his voice, and the hesitation for words, and the fluid lordliness with which he rolled over difficulties in speech.

Simultaneously with the sounding of the bell the door opened, and presented Tom Bakewell.  There was a double knock at the same instant at the street door.  Lucy delayed to give orders.

“Can it be a letter, Tom!—­so late?” she said, changing colour.  “Pray run and see.”

“That an’t powst” Tom remarked, as he obeyed his mistress.

“Are you very anxious for a letter, Mrs. Feverel?” Lord Mountfalcon inquired.

“Oh, no!—­yes, I am, very.” said Lucy.  Her quick ear caught the tones of a voice she remembered.  “That dear old thing has come to see me,” she cried, starting up.