Meanwhile Mr. Carlisle brought her chair into more convenient neighbourhood to the table, and set a plate before her on which he went on to place whatever he thought fit. "I know what you are wanting," he said;—"but you shall not have a cup of tea unless I see you eat." And Eleanor eat, feeling the need of it, and the necessity of doing something likewise.
Mr. Carlisle poured himself out a glass of wine and slowly drank it, watching her. Midway set it down; and himself made and poured out and sugared and creamed a cup of tea which he set beside Eleanor. It was done in the nicest way possible, with a manner that any woman would like to have wait on her. Eleanor tasted, and could not hold her tongue any more.
"I did not know this was one of your accomplishments,"—she said without raising her eyes.
"For you"—said Mr. Carlisle. "I believe it will never be exercised for anybody else."
He slowly finished his wine while he watched her. He eat nothing himself, though Eleanor asked him, till she turned from her plate, and did what she had not done till then but could no longer withhold; let her eyes meet his.
"Now," said he throwing himself into an opposite chair,—"I will take a cup of tea, if you will make it for me."
Eleanor blushed—what made her?—as she set about performing this office. The tea was cold; she had to make fresh, and wait till it was ready; and she stood by the table watching and preparing it, while Mr. Carlisle sat in his chair observing her. Eleanor's cheeks flushed more and more. There was something about this little piece of domesticity, and her becoming the servitor in her turn, that brought up things she did not wish to think of. But her neighbour liked what she did not like, for he sat as quiet as a mouse until Eleanor's trembling hand offered him the cup. She had to take a step or two for it, but he never stirred to abridge them. Eleanor sat down again, and Mr. Carlisle sipped his tea with an appearance of gratification.
"That is a young man of uncommon abilities"—he remarked composedly,—"whom we heard this evening. Do you know who he is, Eleanor?"
Eleanor felt as if the sky was falling. "It is Mr. Rhys—Alfred's old tutor—" she answered, in a voice which she felt was dry and embarrassed to the quick ears that heard her. "You have seen him."
"I thought I had, somewhere. But that man has power. It is a pity he could not be induced to come into the Church—he would draw better houses than Dr. Cairnes. Do you think we could win him over, Eleanor?"