will take you home."

She took the wine from his hand and swallowed a little of it; and then
looking up into his face with the faint smile which she put on when she
expected to be blamed, and intended to deprecate and disarm him, as she
had done so often: "I don't know," she said, "that I am so anxious to
get home, John. You were to take Pippo to dine with you, and to the
House to-night."

"So I was," he said. "We did not know what day you would be called. It
is a great nuisance, but if you think the boy would be disappointed not
to go----"

"He would be much, much disappointed. The first chance he has had of
hearing a debate."

"He would be much better at home, taking care of you."

"As if I wanted taking care of! or as if the boy, who has always been
the object of everybody's care himself, would be the proper person to do
it! If he had been a girl, perhaps--but it is a little late at this time
of day to wish for that now."

"You were to tell him everything to-night, Elinor."

"Oh, I was to tell him! Do you think I have not had enough for one day?
enough to wear me out body and soul? You have just been telling me so,
John."

He shook his head. "You know," he said, "and I know, that in any case
you will have it your own way, Elinor; but you have promised to tell
him."

"John, you are unkind. You take advantage of me being here, and so
broken down, to say that I will have my own way. Has this been my own
way at all? I would have fled if I could, and taken the boy far, far
away from it all; but you would not let me. Yes, yes, I have promised.
But I am tired to death. How could I look him in the face and tell
him----" She hid her face suddenly in her hands with a moan.

"It will be in the papers to-morrow morning, Elinor."

"Well! I will tell him to-morrow morning," she said.

John shook his head again; but it was done behind her, where she could
not see the movement. He had more pity of her than words could say. When
she covered her face with her hands in that most pathetic of attitudes,
there was nothing that he would not have forgiven her. What was to
become of her now? Her position through all these years had never been
so dangerous, in John's opinion, never so sad, as now. Philip Compton
had been there looking on while she put his accusers to silence, at what
cost to herself John only began dimly to guess--to divine, to forbid
himself to inquire. The fellow had been there all the time. He had
the grac