fairs on which he was
engaged, in a desperate endeavour to rouse her admiration, she only
looked at him steadily a moment with very penetrating eyes, and began to
speak of something else. He began to feel discouraged.

* * * * *

The first hint that Ralph had that he had been making a mistake in his
estimate of her, came from Margaret Roper, who was still living at
Chelsea with her husband Will.

Ralph had walked up to the house one bleak afternoon in early spring
along the river-bank from Westminster, and had found Margaret alone in
the dining-hall, seated by the window with her embroidery in her hand,
and a Terence propped open on the sill to catch the last gleams of light
from the darkening afternoon. She greeted Ralph warmly, for he was a
very familiar figure to them all by now, and soon began to talk, when he
had taken a seat by the wide open fireplace whence the flames flickered
out, casting shadows and lights round the high room, across the
high-hung tapestries and in the gloomy corners.

"Beatrice is here," she said presently, "upstairs with father. I think
she is doing some copying for him."

"She is a great deal with him," observed Ralph.

"Why, yes; father thinks so much of her. He says that none can write so
well as she, or has such a quick brain. And then she does not talk, he
says, nor ask foolish woman-questions like the rest of us." And Margaret
glanced up a moment, smiling.

"I suppose I must not go up," said Ralph, a little peevishly; for he was
tired with his long day.

"Why, no, you must not," said Margaret, "but she will be down soon, Mr.
Torridon."

There was silence for a moment or two; and then Margaret spoke again.

"Mr. Torridon," she said, "may I say something?" Ralph made a little
sound of assent. The warmth of the fire was making him sleepy.

"Well, it is this," said Margaret slowly, "I think you believe that
Beatrice does not like you. That is not true. She is very fond of you;
she thinks a great deal of you," she added, rather hastily.

Ralph sat up; his drowsiness was gone.

"How do you know that, Mrs. Roper?" he asked. His voice sounded
perfectly natural, and Margaret was reassured at the tone of it. She
could not see Ralph well; it was getting dark now.

"I know it well," she said. "Of course we talk of you when you are
gone."

"And does Mrs. Beatrice talk of me?"

"Not so much," said Margaret, "but she listens very closely; and asks us