Whatever Amelius might think of the situation in which he now found
himself, the one thing that he could honourably do was to say nothing,
and submit to it. He remained quietly by the fire. No imaginable
consideration (he mentally resolved) should induce him to consent to a
second confidential interview in Mrs. Farnaby's room.

The servant opened the house-door. Regina's voice was heard in the hall.

"Has my aunt come in?"

"No, miss."

"Have you heard nothing of her?"

"Nothing, miss."

"Has Mr. Goldenheart been here?"

"No, miss."

"Very extraordinary! What can have become of them, Cecilia?"

The voice of the other lady was heard in answer. "We have probably
missed them, on leaving the concert room. Don't alarm yourself, Regina.
I must go back, under any circumstances; the carriage will be waiting
for me. If I see anything of your aunt, I will say that you are
expecting her at home."

"One moment, Cecilia! (Thomas, you needn't wait.) Is it really true that
you don't like Mr. Goldenheart?"

"What! has it come to that, already? I'll try to like him, Regina.
Goodbye again."

The closing of the street door told that the ladies had separated. The
sound was followed, in another moment, by the opening and closing of the
dining-room door. Mrs. Farnaby returned to her chair at the fireplace.

"Regina has gone into the dining-room to wait for us," she said. "I see
you don't like your position here; and I won't keep you more than a few
minutes longer. You are of course at a loss to understand what I was
saying to you, when the knock at the door interrupted us. Sit down again
for five minutes; it fidgets me to see you standing there, looking at
your boots. I told you I had one consolation still possibly left. Judge
for yourself what the hope of it is to me, when I own to you that I
should long since have put an end to my life, without it. Don't think I
am talking nonsense; I mean what I say. It is one of my misfortunes that
I have no religious scruples to restrain me. There was a time when I
believed that religion might comfort me. I once opened my heart to a
clergyman--a worthy person, who did his best to help me. All useless! My
heart was too hard, I suppose. It doesn't matter--except to give you
one more proof that I am thoroughly in earnest. Patience! patience! I am
coming to the point. I asked you some odd questions, on the day when you
first dined here? You have forgotten all about them, of course?"

"I r