"He talked of coming and dining here."
"Oh yes; pray let him come."
"You would not mind that?"
"I would dine early and be out of the way. I should be so glad if you would have somebody sometimes. I shouldn't think then that I was such a—such a restraint to you."
But this was not what Mr. Wharton desired. "I shouldn't like that, my dear. Of course he would know that you were in the house."
"Upon my word, I think you might meet an old friend like that," said Everett.
She looked at her brother, and then at her father, and burst into tears. "Of course you shall not be pressed if it would be irksome to you," said her father.
"It is the first plunge that hurts," said Everett. "If you could once bring yourself to do it, you would find afterwards that you were more comfortable."
"Papa," she said slowly, "I know what it means. His goodness I shall always remember. You may tell him I say so. But I cannot meet him yet." Then they pressed her no further. Of course she had understood. Her father could not even ask her to say a word which might give comfort to Arthur as to some long distant time.
He went down to the House of Commons the next day, and saw his young friend there. Then they walked up and down Westminster Hall for nearly an hour, talking over the matter with the most absolute freedom. "It cannot be for the benefit of any one," said Arthur Fletcher, "that she should immolate herself like an Indian widow,—and for the sake of such a man as that! Of course I have no right to dictate to you,—hardly, perhaps, to give an opinion."