is true, but gentlemen generally propose without any
absolutely defined determination as to their doing so. Such was now
the case with Mr. Arabin.

"It is a lovely sunset," said Eleanor, answering him on the dreadfully
trite subject which he had chosen.

Mr. Arabin could not see the sunset from the hearth-rug, so he had to
go close to her.

"Very lovely," said he, standing modestly so far away from her as to
avoid touching the flounces of her dress. Then it appeared that he
had nothing further to say; so, after gazing for a moment in silence
at the brightness of the setting sun, he returned to the fire.

Eleanor found that it was quite impossible for herself to commence a
conversation. In the first place she could find nothing to say; words,
which were generally plenty enough with her, would not come to her
relief. And moreover, do what she would, she could hardly prevent
herself from crying.

"Do you like Ullathorne?" said Mr. Arabin, speaking from the safely
distant position which he had assumed on the hearth-rug.

"Yes, indeed, very much!"

"I don't mean Mr. and Miss Thorne--I know you like them--but the style
of the house. There is something about old-fashioned mansions, built
as this is, and old-fashioned gardens, that to me is especially
delightful."

"I like everything old-fashioned," said Eleanor; "old-fashioned things
are so much the honestest."

"I don't know about that," said Mr. Arabin, gently laughing. "That
is an opinion on which very much may be said on either side. It is
strange how widely the world is divided on a subject which so nearly
concerns us all, and which is so close beneath our eyes. Some think
that we are quickly progressing towards perfection, while others
imagine that virtue is disappearing from the earth."

"And you, Mr. Arabin, what do you think?" said Eleanor. She felt
somewhat surprised at the tone which his conversation was taking, and
yet she was relieved at his saying something which enabled herself to
speak without showing her own emotion.

"What do I think, Mrs. Bold?" and then he rumbled his money with his
hands in his trousers pockets, and looked and spoke very little like a
thriving lover. "It is the bane of my life that on important subjects
I acquire no fixed opinion. I think, and think, and go on thinking,
and yet my thoughts are running ever in different directions. I hardly
know whether or no we do lean more confidently than our fathers did on
those high hop