"Have you been good since I have been away?"
"No!" said Eleanor bluntly.
"Do you always speak truth after this fashion?"
"I speak it as you will find it, Mr. Carlisle."
The questions were put between caresses; but in all his manner nevertheless, in kisses and questions alike, there was that indefinable air of calm possession and power, before which Eleanor always felt unable to offer any resistance. He made her now change "Mr. Carlisle" for a more familiar name, before he would go on. Eleanor felt as a colt may be supposed to feel, which is getting a skilful "breaking in;" yielding obedience at every step, and at every step secretly wishing to refuse obedience, to refuse which is becoming more and more impossible.
"Haven't you been a little too good to somebody else, while I have been away?"
"No!" said Eleanor. "I never am."
"Darling, I do not wish you to honour any one so far as that woman reports you to have done."
"That!" said Eleanor. "That was the merest act of common kindness—Julia wanted some one to go with her to take some things to a sick man; and I wanted a walk, and I went."
"You were too kind. I must unlearn you a little of your kindness. You are mine, now, darling; and I want all of you for myself."