ly as I abhorred him at that moment, I did not like to treat him
with rudeness, as I was now his guest, and had just been enjoying his
hospitality; and I was no hand at a polite but determined rejection, nor
would it have greatly availed me if I had, for he was too coarse-minded
to take any repulse that was not as plain and positive as his own
effrontery. The consequence was, that he waxed more fulsomely tender,
and more repulsively warm, and I was driven to the very verge of
desperation, and about to say I know not what, when I felt my hand, that
hung over the arm of the sofa, suddenly taken by another and gently but
fervently pressed. Instinctively, I guessed who it was, and, on looking
up, was less surprised than delighted to see Mr. Huntingdon smiling upon
me. It was like turning from some purgatorial fiend to an angel of
light, come to announce that the season of torment was past.

'Helen,' said he (he frequently called me Helen, and I never resented the
freedom), 'I want you to look at this picture. Mr. Wilmot will excuse
you a moment, I'm sure.'

I rose with alacrity. He drew my arm within his, and led me across the
room to a splendid painting of Vandyke's that I had noticed before, but
not sufficiently examined. After a moment of silent contemplation, I was
beginning to comment on its beauties and peculiarities, when, playfully
pressing the hand he still retained within his arm, he interrupted me
with,--'Never mind the picture: it was not for that I brought you here;
it was to get you away from that scoundrelly old profligate yonder, who
is looking as if he would like to challenge me for the affront.'

'I am very much obliged to you,' said I. 'This is twice you have
delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.'

'Don't be too thankful,' he answered: 'it is not all kindness to you; it
is partly from a feeling of spite to your tormentors that makes me
delighted to do the old fellows a bad turn, though I don't think I have
any great reason to dread them as rivals. Have I, Helen?'

'You know I detest them both.'

'And me?'

'I have no reason to detest you.'

'But what are your sentiments towards me? Helen--Speak! How do you
regard me?'

And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more of conscious
power than tenderness in his demeanour, and I felt he had no right to
extort a confession of attachment from me when he had made no
correspondent avowal himself, and knew not what to answer