“Helen,” said he (he frequently called me Helen, and I never resented the freedom), “I want you to look at this picture. Mr. Wilmot will excuse you a moment, I’m sure.”
I rose with alacrity. He drew my arm within his, and led me across the room to a splendid painting of Vandyke’s that I had noticed before, but not sufficiently examined. After a moment of silent contemplation, I was beginning to comment on its beauties and peculiarities, when, playfully pressing the hand he still retained within his arm, he interrupted me with,—“Never mind the picture: it was not for that I brought you here; it was to get you away from that scoundrelly old profligate yonder, who is looking as if he would like to challenge me for the affront.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said I. “This is twice you have delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.”
“Don’t be too thankful,” he answered: “it is not all kindness to you; it is partly from a feeling of spite to your tormentors that makes me delighted to do the old fellows a bad turn, though I don’t think I have any great reason to dread them as rivals. Have I, Helen?”
“You know I detest them both.”
“And me?”
“I have no reason to detest you.”
“But what are your sentiments towards me? Helen—Speak! How do you regard me?”
And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more of conscious power than tenderness in his demeanour, and I felt he had no right to extort a confession of attachment from me when he had made no correspondent avowal himself, and knew not what to answer. At last I said,—
“How do you regard me?”