odwin's feelings it too much resembled that with which she would have
received an applicant for the post of footman. Yet her smile was
friendly enough, and no lack of civility appeared in the repetition of
her excuses for having replied so late.

'Let us talk about this,' she began, when Godwin was uneasily seated.
(She spoke with an excess of precision, as though it had at one time
been needful for her to premeditate polished phrases.) 'I am very sorry
you should have to think of quitting the College; very sorry indeed.
You are one of the students who do honour to the institution.'

This was pleasant, and Godwin felt a regret of the constraint that was
upon him. In his endeavour not to display a purring smile, he looked
grim, as if the compliment were beneath his notice.

'Pray don't think,' she pursued, 'that I wish you to speak more fully
about the private circumstances you refer to in your letter. But do let
me ask you: Is your decision final? Are you sure that when the
vacations are over you will see things just as you do now?'

'I am quite sure of it,' he replied.

The emphasis was merely natural to him. He could not so govern his
voice as to convey the respectful regret which at this moment he felt.
A younger lady, one who had heightened the charm of her compliment with
subtle harmony of tones and strongly feminine gaze, would perhaps have
elicited from him a free confession. Gratitude and admiration would
have made him capable of such frankness. But in the face of this
newspaper-reading woman (yes, he had unaccountably felt it jar upon him
that a lady should be reading a newspaper), under her matronly smile,
he could do no more than plump out his 'quite sure'. To Lady Whitelaw
it sounded altogether too curt; she was conscious of her position as
patroness, and had in fact thought it likely that the young man would
be disposed to gratify her curiosity in some measure.

'I can only say that I am sorry to hear it,' fell from her tightened
lips, after a moment's pause.

Instantly Godwin's pride expelled the softer emotion. He pressed hard
with his feet upon the floor, every nerve in his body tense with that
distressing passion peculiar to the shyly arrogant. Regard him, and you
had imagined he was submitting to rebuke for an offence he could not
deny.

Lady Whitelaw waited. A minute, almost, and Peak gave no sign of
opening his mouth.

'It is certainly much to be regretted,' she said at length, coolly. 'Of