“You used often to sit on my knee when you were a child, my dear,” I said, “and now your little dog seems determined to succeed you in the vacant throne.  Is that pretty drawing your doing?”

I pointed to a little album which lay on the table by her side and which she had evidently been looking over when I came in.  The page that lay open had a small water-colour landscape very neatly mounted on it.  This was the drawing which had suggested my question—­an idle question enough—­but how could I begin to talk of business to her the moment I opened my lips?

“No,” she said, looking away from the drawing rather confusedly, “it is not my doing.”

Her fingers had a restless habit, which I remembered in her as a child, of always playing with the first thing that came to hand whenever any one was talking to her.  On this occasion they wandered to the album, and toyed absently about the margin of the little water-colour drawing.  The expression of melancholy deepened on her face.  She did not look at the drawing, or look at me.  Her eyes moved uneasily from object to object in the room, betraying plainly that she suspected what my purpose was in coming to speak to her.  Seeing that, I thought it best to get to the purpose with as little delay as possible.

“One of the errands, my dear, which brings me here is to bid you good-bye,” I began.  “I must get back to London to-day:  and, before I leave, I want to have a word with you on the subject of your own affairs.”

“I am very sorry you are going, Mr. Gilmore,” she said, looking at me kindly.  “It is like the happy old times to have you here.

“I hope I may be able to come back and recall those pleasant memories once more,” I continued; “but as there is some uncertainty about the future, I must take my opportunity when I can get it, and speak to you now.  I am your old lawyer and your old friend, and I may remind you, I am sure, without offence, of the possibility of your marrying Sir Percival Glyde.”

She took her hand off the little album as suddenly as if it had turned hot and burnt her.  Her fingers twined together nervously in her lap, her eyes looked down again at the floor, and an expression of constraint settled on her face which looked almost like an expression of pain.

“Is it absolutely necessary to speak of my marriage engagement?” she asked in low tones.

“It is necessary to refer to it,” I answered, “but not to dwell on it.  Let us merely say that you may marry, or that you may not marry.  In the first case, I must be prepared, beforehand, to draw your settlement, and I ought not to do that without, as a matter of politeness, first consulting you.  This may be my only chance of hearing what your wishes are.  Let us, therefore, suppose the case of your marrying, and let me inform you, in as few words as possible, what your position is now, and what you may make it, if you please, in the future.”