She paused again.  The colour that had spread over her cheeks suddenly, as suddenly left them.  The hand on the album resigned its hold, trembled a little, and moved the book away from her.  She looked at me for an instant—­then turned her head aside in the chair.  Her handkerchief fell to the floor as she changed her position, and she hurriedly hid her face from me in her hands.

Sad!  To remember her, as I did, the liveliest, happiest child that ever laughed the day through, and to see her now, in the flower of her age and her beauty, so broken and so brought down as this!

In the distress that she caused me I forgot the years that had passed, and the change they had made in our position towards one another.  I moved my chair close to her, and picked up her handkerchief from the carpet, and drew her hands from her face gently.  “Don’t cry, my love,” I said, and dried the tears that were gathering in her eyes with my own hand, as if she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten long years ago.

It was the best way I could have taken to compose her.  She laid her head on my shoulder, and smiled faintly through her tears.

“I am very sorry for forgetting myself,” she said artlessly.  “I have not been well—­I have felt sadly weak and nervous lately, and I often cry without reason when I am alone.  I am better now—­I can answer you as I ought, Mr. Gilmore, I can indeed.”

“No, no, my dear,” I replied, “we will consider the subject as done with for the present.  You have said enough to sanction my taking the best possible care of your interests, and we can settle details at another opportunity.  Let us have done with business now, and talk of something else.”

I led her at once into speaking on other topics.  In ten minutes’ time she was in better spirits, and I rose to take my leave.

“Come here again,” she said earnestly.  “I will try to be worthier of your kind feeling for me and for my interests if you will only come again.”

Still clinging to the past—­that past which I represented to her, in my way, as Miss Halcombe did in hers!  It troubled me sorely to see her looking back, at the beginning of her career, just as I look back at the end of mine.

“If I do come again, I hope I shall find you better,” I said; “better and happier.  God bless you, my dear!”

She only answered by putting up her cheek to me to be kissed.  Even lawyers have hearts, and mine ached a little as I took leave of her.

The whole interview between us had hardly lasted more than half an hour—­she had not breathed a word, in my presence, to explain the mystery of her evident distress and dismay at the prospect of her marriage, and yet she had contrived to win me over to her side of the question, I neither knew how nor why.  I had entered the room, feeling that Sir Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of the manner in which she was treating him.  I left it, secretly hoping that matters might end in her taking him at his word and claiming her release.  A man of my age and experience ought to have known better than to vacillate in this unreasonable manner.  I can make no excuse for myself; I can only tell the truth, and say—­so it was.