Evan drew the dear hand humbly to his lips.  Rose then nodded meaningly, and let her eyes dwell on him, and went in to her mother to open the battle.

Could it be that a flame had sprung up in those grey eyes latterly?  Once they were like morning before sunrise.  How soft and’ warm and tenderly transparent they could now be!  Assuredly she loved him.  And he, beloved by the noblest girl ever fashioned, why should he hang his head, and shrink at the thought of human faces, like a wretch doomed to the pillory?  He visioned her last glance, and lightning emotions of pride and happiness flashed through his veins.  The generous, brave heart!  Yes, with her hand in his, he could stand at bay—­meet any fate.  Evan accepted Rose because he believed in her love, and judged it by the strength of his own; her sacrifice of her position he accepted, because in his soul he knew he should have done no less.  He mounted to the level of her nobleness, and losing nothing of the beauty of what she did, it was not so strange to him.

Still there was the baleful reflection that he was second fiddle to his beloved.  No harmony came of it in his mind.  How could he take an initiative?  He walked forth on the lawn, where a group had gathered under the shade of a maple, consisting of Drummond Forth, Mrs. Evremonde, Mrs. Shorne, Mr. George Uplift, Seymour Jocelyn, and Ferdinand Laxley.  A little apart Juliana Bonner was walking with Miss Carrington.  Juliana, when she saw him, left her companion, and passing him swiftly, said, ‘Follow me presently into the conservatory.’

Evan strolled near the group, and bowed to Mrs. Shorne, whom he had not seen that morning.

The lady’s acknowledgement of his salute was constrained, and but a shade on the side of recognition.  They were silent till he was out of earshot.  He noticed that his second approach produced the same effect.  In the conservatory Juliana was awaiting him.

‘It is not to give you roses I called you here, Mr. Harrington,’ she said.

‘Not if I beg one?’ he responded.

‘Ah! but you do not want them from . . .  It depends on the person.’

‘Pluck this,’ said Evan, pointing to a white rose.

She put her fingers to the stem.

What folly!’ she cried, and turned from it.

‘Are you afraid that I shall compromise you?’ asked Evan.

‘You care for me too little for that.’

‘My dear Miss Bonner!’

‘How long did you know Rose before you called her by her Christian name?’

Evan really could not remember, and was beginning to wonder what he had been called there for.  The little lady had feverish eyes and fingers, and seemed to be burning to speak, but afraid.

‘I thought you had gone,’ she dropped her voice, ’without wishing me good-bye.’

‘I certainly should not do that, Miss Bonner.’

‘Formal!’ she exclaimed, half to herself.  ’Miss Bonner thanks you.  Do you think I wish you to stay?  No friend of yours would wish it.  You do not know the selfishness—­brutal!—­of these people of birth, as they call it.’