"Have you decided, my love?"
Eleanor leaned her head upon her hand, as if with the question came the remembrance of last night's burden of thoughts; but her answer was a quiet low "yes."
"May I know—for I feel myself responsible to a degree in this matter,—may I know, on what ground?"
Eleanor's look was worth five hundred pounds. The little glance of surprise and consciousness—the flash of hidden light, there was no need to ask from what magazine, answered so completely, so involuntarily. She cast down her eyes immediately and answered in words sedate enough—
"Because I am unable to come to any other decision, ma'am."
"But Eleanor, my dear," said Mrs. Caxton,—"do you know, Mr. Rhys himself would be unwilling you should come to him for his own sake alone—in Fiji."
Eleanor turned away from the table at that and covered her face with her hands; a perfect rush of confusion bringing over face and neck and almost even over the little white fingers, a suffusing crimson glow. She spoke presently.
"I cannot say anything to that, aunt Caxton. I have tried myself as well as I can. I think I would go anywhere and do anything where I saw clearly my work and my place were put for me. I do not know anything more about it."
"My love, that is enough. I believe you. I entirely approve your decision. I spoke, because I needed to ask the question he would have asked if he had been here. Mr. Rhys has written to me very stringently on the subject."
"So he has to me, ma'am."