was recently--this morning, as it
happened. I wish to go to my mother to-day. I shall go to her to-morrow.'

'I might offer to conduct you-now!'

'You are kind; I have Skepsey.' She relieved the situation of its
cold-toned strain in adding: 'He is a host.'

'But I may come?--now! Have I not the right? You do not deny it me?'

'You are very generous.'

'I claim the right, then. Always. And subsequently, soon after, my mother
hopes to welcome you at Cronidge. She will be glad to hear of your naming
of a day. My father bids me . . . he and all our family.'

'They are very generous.'

'I may send them word this evening of a day you name?'

'No, Mr. Sowerby.

'Dudley?'

'I cannot say it. I have to see my parents.'

'Between us, surely?'

'My whole heart thanks you for your goodness to me. I am unable to say
more.'

He had again observed and he slightly crisped under the speculative look
she directed on him: a simple unstrained look, that had an air of reading
right in, and was worse to bear with than when the spark leaped upon some
thought from her eyes: though he had no imagination of anything he
concealed--or exposed, and he would have set it down to her temporary
incredulousness of his perfect generosity or power to overcome the
world's opinion of certain circumstances. That had been a struggle! The
peculiar look was not renewed. She spoke warmly of her gratitude. She
stated, that she must of necessity see her parents at once. She submitted
to his entreaty to conduct her to them on the morrow. It was in the
manner of one who yielded step by step, from inability to contend.

Her attitude continuing unchanged, he became sensible of a monotony in
the speech with which he assailed it, and he rose to leave, not
dissatisfied. She, at his urgent request, named her train for London in
the early morning. He said it was not too early. He would have desired to
be warmed; yet he liked her the better for the moral sentiment
controlling the physical. He had appointments with relatives or
connections in the town, and on that pretext he departed, hoping for the
speedy dawn of the morrow as soon as he had turned his back on the house.

No, not he the man to have pity of women underfoot! That was the thought,
unrevolved, unphrased, all but unconscious, in Nesta: and while her heart
was exalting him for his generosity. Under her present sense of the
chilling shadow, she felt the comfort there was in being grateful to him