morning, I must be humility itself after only reading Milton!"

With that little interchange of the acid amenities of feminine
intercourse, step-mother and step-daughter withdrew to a writing-table,
to put the virtue of hospitality in practice together.

Arnold joined his friend at the other end of the library.

Geoffrey was sitting with his elbows on the desk, and his clenched fists
dug into his cheeks. Great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead,
and the fragments of a torn letter lay scattered all round him. He
exhibited symptoms of nervous sensibility for the first time in his
life--he started when Arnold spoke to him.

"What's the matter, Geoffrey?"

"A letter to answer. And I don't know how."

"From Miss Silvester?" asked Arnold, dropping his voice so as to prevent
the ladies at the other end of the room from hearing him.

"No," answered Geoffrey, in a lower voice still.

"Have you heard what Blanche has been saying to me about Miss
Silvester?"

"Some of it."

"Did you hear Blanche say that she meant to send me to Craig Fernie
to-morrow, if she failed to get news from Miss Silvester to-day?"