a look
of uneasiness.

"Miss Doran and her aunt are with Mrs. Spence, Reuben."

"Oh, in that case--" he began carelessly, with a wave of the arm.

"But they will be glad to see you."

"Indeed? I look rather seedy, I'm afraid."

"Take off your overcoat."

"I'm all grimy. I came here straight from the railway."

"Then go into my bedroom and make yourself presentable."

A few moments sufficed for this. As she waited for his return, Miriam
stood with knitted brows, her eyes fixed on the floor. Reuben
reappeared, and she examined him.

"You're bitterly ashamed of me, Miriam."

She made no reply, and at once led the way along the corridor.

Mrs. Spence had met Reuben in London, since her marriage; by invitation
he came to her house, but neglected to repeat the visit. To Mrs.
Lessingham he was personally a stranger. But neither of these ladies
received the honour of much attention from him for the first few
moments after he had entered the room; his eyes and thoughts were
occupied with the wholly unexpected figure of Cecily Doran. In his
recollection, she was a slight, pale, shy little girl, fond of keeping
in corners with a book, and seemingly marked out for a life of
dissenting piety and provincial surroundings. She had interested him
little in those days, and seldom did anything to bring herself under
his notice. He last saw her when she was about twelve. Now he found
himself in the presence of a beautiful woman, every line of whose
countenance told of instruction, thought, spirit; whose bearing was
refined beyond anything he had yet understood by that word; whose
modest revival of old acquaintance made his hand thrill at her touch,
and his heart beat confusedly as he looked into her eyes. With
difficulty he constrained himself to common social necessities, and
made show of conversing with the elder ladies. He wished to gaze
steadily at the girl's face, and connect past with present; to revive
his memory of six years ago, and convince himself that such development
was possible. At the same time he became aware of a reciprocal
curiosity in Cecily. When he turned towards her she met his glance, and
when he spoke she gave him a smile of pleased attentiveness. The
consequence was that he soon began to speak freely, to pick his words,
no balance his sentences and shun the commonplace.

"I saw Florence and Rome in '76," he replied to a question from Mrs.
Lessingham. "In Rome my travelling companion fell ill, and w