One evening, about a week after Mr. Neal's arrival at the Villa, Manisty was more depressed than usual. He had been making some attempts to rearrange a certain section of his book which had fallen especially under the ban of Neal's criticism. He had not been successful; and in the process his discontent with one chapter had spread to several. In talking about the matter to Vanbrugh Neal in the salon after dinner he broke out into some expression of disgust as to the waste of time involved in much of his work of the winter. The two friends were in a corner of the vast room; and Manisty spoke in an undertone. But his voice had the carrying and penetrating power of his personality.
Presently Eleanor Burgoyne rose, and softly approached Miss Manisty. 'Dear Aunt Pattie—don't move'—she said, bending over her—'I am tired and will go to bed.'
Manisty, who had turned at her movement, sprang up, and came to her.
'Eleanor! did we walk you too far this afternoon?'
She smiled, but hardly replied. He busied himself with gathering up her possessions, and lit her candle at the side-table.
As she passed by him to the door, he looked at her furtively for a moment,—hanging his head. Then he pressed her hand, and said so that only she could hear—
'I should have kept my regrets to myself!'
She shook her head, with faint mockery.
'It would be the first time.'
Her hand dropped from his, and she passed out of sight. Manisty walked back to his seat discomfited. He could not defend himself against the charges of secret tyranny and abominable ill-humour that his conscience was pricking him with. He was sorry—he would have liked to tell her so. And yet somehow her very weakness and sweetness, her delicate uncomplainingness seemed only to develope his own small egotisms and pugnacities.