“That she is!” exclaimed Piers, with a passionate delight on his visage and in his voice.  “And she would rather I spoke to her—­I feel she would!  She, with her fine intelligence and noble heart, she would think it dreadful that a man did not dare to approach her, just because of something not his fault, something that made him no bit the less a man, and capable of honour.  I know that thought would shake her with pity and indignation.  So far I can read in her.  What!  You think I know her too little?  And the thought of her never out of my mind for these five years!  I have got to know her better and better, as time went on.  Every word she spoke at Ewell stayed in my memory, and by perpetual repetition has grown into my life.  Every sentence has given me its full meaning.  I didn’t need to be near her to study her.  She was in my mind; I heard her and saw her whenever I wished; as I have grown older and more experienced in life, I have been better able to understand her.  I used to think this was enough.  I had—­you know—­that exalted sort of mood; Dante’s Beatrice, and all that!  It was enough for the time, seeing that I lived with it, and through it.  But now—­no!  And there is no single reason why I should be ashamed to stand before her, and tell her that—­What I feel.”

He checked himself, and gloomed for an instant, then continued in another tone: 

“Yet that isn’t true.  There are reasons—­I believe no man living could say that when speaking of such a woman as Irene Derwent.  I cannot face her without shame—­the shame of every man who stands before a pure-hearted girl.  We have to bear that, and to hide it as best we can.”

The listener bent upon him a wondering gaze, and seemed unable to avert it, till his look answered her.

“You will give me this opportunity, Mrs. Hannaford?” he added pleadingly.

“I have no right whatever to refuse it.  Besides, how could I, if I wished?

“When shall I come?  I must remember that I am not free to wander about.  If it could be a Sunday——­”

“I have forgotten something I ought to have told you already,” said Mrs. Hannaford.  “Whilst she was on her travels, Irene had an offer from someone else.”

Piers laughed.

“Can that surprise one?  Should I wonder if I were told she had fifty?”

“Yes, but this was not of the ordinary kind.  You know that Mr. Jacks is well acquainted with Trafford Romaine.  And it was Trafford Romaine himself.”

The news did not fail of its impression.  Piers smiled vaguely, and on the smile came a look of troubled pride.

“Well, it is not astonishing, but it gives me a better opinion of the man.  I shall always feel a sort of sympathy when I come across his name.  Why did you think I ought to know?”

“For a reason I feel to be rather foolish, now I come to speak of it,” replied Mrs. Hannaford.  “But—­I had a feeling that Irene is by nature rather ambitious; and if, after such an experience as that, she so soon accepts a man who has done nothing particular, whose position is not brilliant——­”