Miss Stanbury had painted for him,--a picture which, as
it seemed, was not to be realised. "And what had I better do, Miss
Stanbury?" he asked at last.

"Do! I don't know what you're to do. I'm groom enough to bring a mare
to water, but I can't make her drink."

"Will waiting be any good?"

"How can I say? I'll tell you one thing not to do. Don't go and
philander with those girls at Heavitree. It's my belief that Dorothy
has been thinking of them. People talk to her, of course."

"I wish people would hold their tongues. People are so indiscreet.
People don't know how much harm they may do."

"You've given them some excuse, you know, Mr. Gibson."

This was very ill-natured, and was felt by Mr. Gibson to be so rude,
that he almost turned upon his patroness in anger. He had known Dolly
for not more than three months, and had devoted himself to her, to
the great anger of his older friends. He had come this morning true
to his appointment, expecting that others would keep their promises
to him, as he was ready to keep those which he had made;--and now he
was told that it was his fault! "I do think that's rather hard, Miss
Stanbury," he said.

"So you have," said she;--"nasty, slatternly girls, without an idea
inside their noddles. But it's no use your scolding me."

"I didn't mean to scold, Miss Stanbury."

"I've done all that I could."

"And you think she won't see me for a minute?"

"She says she won't. I can't bid Martha carry her down."

"Then, perhaps, I had better leave you for the present," said Mr.
Gibson, after another pause. So he went, a melancholy, blighted man.
Leaving the Close, he passed through into Southernhay, and walked
across by the new streets towards the Heavitree road. He had no
design in taking this route, but he went on till he came in sight
of the house in which Mrs. French lived. As he walked slowly by it,
he looked up at the windows, and something of a feeling of romance
came across his heart. Were his young affections buried there, or
were they not? And, if so, with which of those fair girls were
they buried? For the last two years, up to last night, Camilla had
certainly been in the ascendant. But Arabella was a sweet young
woman; and there had been a time,--when those tender passages were
going on,--in which he had thought that no young woman ever was so
sweet. A period of romance, an era of enthusiasm, a short-lived,
delicious holiday of hot-tongued insanity had been permitted t