"I came"—his voice almost unconsciously sinking to the level hers has indicated to him—"to ask you to lend me a book."
"A book!" she repeats doubtfully, with another and still more nervous glance at the shut door; "I am afraid that they are all in there."
"Oh, it is of no consequence!" rejoins Burgoyne hastily, unwittingly quoting the words of the immortal Mr. Toots; "it does not matter in the least."
As he speaks, he begins to retreat towards the door, but so slowly as to give her plenty of time to recall him had she so wished. But she does not. She only stands looking uncertain and distressed. He cannot take such a melancholy impression of her little face away for the whole night with him—it would give him the blues too seriously after this dismal day—so he takes a step or two forward again.
"Are not you rather lonely?" he asks, with an expressive look round.
She gives a small, uncomplaining smile.
"Oh no; I do very well. I am generally alone at this time of day; they like to have their evenings to themselves—at least, father likes to have mammy to himself; I am sure it is quite natural."
There is not the slightest trace of any sense of being aggrieved in either words or tone.
Again that picture of the adored Elizabeth of former days, of whose prattle her father was never weary, whose jokes were always considered so unequalled, and whose pre-eminence in favour was so allowed that her intercession and influence were always employed by the others as certain in their efficacy, rises before Jim's eyes.
"They are like lovers still," continues Elizabeth softly; "it is very pretty when people are lovers still after nearly thirty years."