ransport of
astonishment. "What!" he cried, "take her back? Without rest, without
supper? And you call that duty? How inconceivably ugly does duty look
when it assumes an inhospitable aspect towards a woman! Pardon me, sir;
I must express my sentiments or I shall burst. You will say perhaps that
I have no conception of duty? Pardon me again--my conception of duty is
_here!"_

He threw open the door of the sitting-room. In spite of his anxiety,
Amelius burst out laughing. The Frenchman's inexhaustible contrivances
had transformed the sitting-room into a bedroom for Sally. The sofa had
become a snug little white bed; a hairbrush and comb, and a bottle of
eau-de-cologne, were on the table; a bath stood near the fire, with cans
of hot and cold water, and a railway rug placed under them to save the
carpet. "I dare not presume to contradict you, sir," said Toff, "but
there is _my_ conception of duty! In the kitchen, I have another
conception, keeping warm; you can smell it up the stairs. Salmi of
partridge, with the littlest possible dash of garlic in the sauce. Oh,
sir, let that angel rest and refresh herself! Virtuous severity, believe
me, is a most horribly unbecoming virtue at your age!" He spoke quite
seriously, with the air of a profound moralist, asserting principles
that did equal honour to his head and his heart.

Amelius went back to the library.

Sally was resting in the easy-chair; her position showed plainly that
she was suffering from fatigue. "I have had a long, long walk," she
said; "and I don't know which aches worst, my back or my feet. I don't
care--I'm quite happy now I'm here." She nestled herself comfortably in
the chair. "Do you mind my looking at you?" she asked. "Oh, it's so long
since I saw you!"

There was a new undertone of tenderness in her voice--innocent
tenderness that openly avowed itself. The reviving influences of the
life at the Home had done much--and had much yet left to do. Her wasted
face and figure were filling out, her cheeks and lips were regaining
their lovely natural colour, as Amelius had seen in his dream. But her
eyes, in repose, still resumed their vacantly patient look; and her
manner, with a perceptible increase of composure and confidence, had
not lost its quaint childish charm. Her growth from girl to woman was a
growth of fine gradations, guided by the unerring deliberation of Nature
and Time.

"Do you think they will follow you here, from the Home?" Amelius asked.