'Papa is asleep,' she whispered; 'we must be very quiet now.'
There were books on the table, and I turned the leaves of one without any consciousness of what I was gazing upon. It did not occur to me that this was the proper time for me to leave; I was as a man enthralled. A movement made by the sleeping man (did he sleep? I have sometimes wondered in my jealous analysis of these small details) aroused me from my dream, and I wished Miss Glaive good-night. She accompanied me to the street-door.
'Papa is in trouble,' she said; are you going to assist him?'
'He has asked for my advice,' I replied.
'We must not talk now,' she said, 'for fear he should wake up and miss me; he is irritable, and has heart-disease. May I call and see you to-morrow? I know where your office is. I wrote the notes you received from papa.'
'I shall be glad to see you,' I said.
'At three o'clock, then,' were her last words, and we shook hands and parted.
A heavy rain had set in during my visit, but I was scarcely conscious of it as I walked into the town. Late as it was, I went to my office. For what purpose do you think? To get the notes which I had received from Mr. Glaive--the notes which now were precious to me because she had written them. I took them home with me and read them, and studied the delicate writing with senseless infatuation, and then placed them under my pillow for a charm, as a schoolgirl might have done. At the office the next morning I made another and a closer examination of Mr. Glaive's affairs, with the same result as I had previously obtained. Ruin was before him--before her. Punctually at three o'clock Miss Glaive arrived. I met her at the door, and conducted her to my private room. My impressions of the previous night were deepened by her appearance; she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and her charm of manner was perfect. It would be useless for me to attempt to describe the feelings with which she inspired me; I have often endeavoured to account for them and understand them, and have never succeeded.
'Papa is very ill to-day,' she said; 'the doctor has been to see him, and says that he is suffering from mental disorder, which may prove dangerous. I have come to you to ask you the nature of his trouble.'
'Do you not think,' I asked, 'that he would be angry if he knew I had made any disclosure of his private affairs?'