“Thank God for our good dinner, Amen.—­Mother, I must just run upstairs to my room.” (’My room’-Sophia being far away.)

And off she ran, strangely girlish.

“Well, child, you needn’t be in such a hurry,” said Mrs. Baines, ringing the bell and rising.

She hoped that Constance would remember the conditions precedent to sleep.

“I should like to have a word with you, if it’s all the same to you, Mrs. Baines,” said Mr. Povey suddenly, with obvious nervousness.  And his tone struck a rude unexpected blow at Mrs. Baines’s peace of mind.  It was a portentous tone.

“What about?” asked she, with an inflection subtly to remind Mr. Povey what day it was.

“About Constance,” said the astonishing man.

“Constance!” exclaimed Mrs. Baines with a histrionic air of bewilderment.

Maggie entered the room, solely in response to the bell, yet a thought jumped up in Mrs. Baines’s brain, “How prying servants are, to be sure!” For quite five seconds she had a grievance against Maggie.  She was compelled to sit down again and wait while Maggie cleared the table.  Mr. Povey put both his hands in his pockets, got up, went to the window, whistled, and generally behaved in a manner which foretold the worst.

At last Maggie vanished, shutting the door.

“What is it, Mr. Povey?”

“Oh!” said Mr. Povey, facing her with absurd nervous brusqueness, as though pretending:  “Ah, yes!  We have something to say—­I was forgetting!” Then he began:  “It’s about Constance and me.”

Yes, they had evidently plotted this interview.  Constance had evidently taken herself off on purpose to leave Mr. Povey unhampered.  They were in league.  The inevitable had come.  No sleep!  No repose!  Nothing but worry once more!

“I’m not at all satisfied with the present situation,” said Mr. Povey, in a tone that corresponded to his words.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Povey,” said Mrs. Baines stiffly.  This was a simple lie.

“Well, really, Mrs. Baines!” Mr. Povey protested, “I suppose you won’t deny that you know there is something between me and Constance?  I suppose you won’t deny that?”

“What is there between you and Constance?  I can assure you I—­”

“That depends on you,” Mr. Povey interrupted her.  When he was nervous his manners deteriorated into a behaviour that resembled rudeness.  “That depends on you!” he repeated grimly.

“But—­”

“Are we to be engaged or are we not?” pursued Mr. Povey, as though Mrs. Baines had been guilty of some grave lapse and he was determined not to spare her.  “That’s what I think ought to be settled, one way or the other.  I wish to be perfectly open and aboveboard—­in the future, as I have been in the past.”

“But you have said nothing to me at all!” Mrs. Baines remonstrated, lifting her eyebrows.  The way in which the man had sprung this matter upon her was truly too audacious.