“Ah!” said Georgiana; “then this son is engaged to her?”

“She calls him her lover.”

“Openly?”

“Have I not told you? ‘naked and unashamed.’”

“Of course that has attracted my Merthyr!” Georgians drew to him tenderly, breathing as one who has a burden off her heart.

“But why did she write to you?” the question started up.

For this reason:  it appears that Mr. Pole showed such nervous irritation at the idea of his family knowing the state he was in, that the doctor attending him exacted a promise from her not to communicate with one of them.  She was alone, in great perplexity, and did what I had requested her to do.  She did me the honour to apply to me for any help it was in my power to give.

Georgiana stood eyeing the ground sideways.  “What is she like?”

“You shall see to-morrow, if you will come with me.”

“Dark, or fair?”

Merthyr turned her face to the light, laughing softly.  Georgiana coloured, with dropped eyelids.

She raised her eyes under their load of shame.  “I will come gladly,” she said.

“Early to-morrow, then,” rejoined Merthyr.

On the morrow, as they were driving to the hotel, Georgians wanted to know whether he called ‘this Miss Belloni’ by her Christian name—­a question so needless that her over-conscious heart drummed with gratitude when she saw that he purposely spared her from one meaning look.  In this mutual knowledge, mutual help, in minute as in great things, as well as in the recognition of a common nobility of mind, the love of the two was fortified.

Emilia had not been left by Mr. Powys without the protection of a woman’s society in her singular position.  Lady Charlotte’s natural prompt kindness required no spur from her friend that she should go and brace up the spirits of a little woman, whom she pitied doubly for loving a man who was deceiving her, and not loving one who was good for her.  She went frequently to Emilia, and sat with her in the sombre hotel drawing-room.  Still, frank as she was and blunt as she affected to be, she could not bring her tongue to speak of Wilfrid.  If she had fancied any sensitive shuddering from the name and the subject to exist, she would have struck boldly, being capable of cruelty and, where she was permitted to see a weakness, rather fond of striking deep.  A belief in the existence of Emilia’s courage touched her to compassion.  One day, however, she said, “What is it you take to in Merthyr Powys?” and this brought on plain speaking.

Emilia could give no reason; and it is a peculiarity of people who ask such questions that they think a want of directness in the answer suspicious.

Lady Charlotte said gravely, “Come, come!”

“What do you mean?” asked Emilia.  “I like so many things in him.”

“You don’t like one thing chiefly?”

“I like—­what do I like?—­his kindness.”