The report pleased Millborne; it was highly creditable, and far
better than he had hoped. He was curious to get a view of the two
women who led such blameless lives.

He had not long to wait to gain a glimpse of Leonora. It was when
she was standing on her own doorstep, opening her parasol, on the
morning after his arrival. She was thin, though not gaunt; and a
good, well-wearing, thoughtful face had taken the place of the one
which had temporarily attracted him in the days of his nonage. She
wore black, and it became her in her character of widow. The
daughter next appeared; she was a smoothed and rounded copy of her
mother, with the same decision in her mien that Leonora had, and a
bounding gait in which he traced a faint resemblance to his own at
her age.

For the first time he absolutely made up his mind to call on them.
But his antecedent step was to send Leonora a note the next morning,
stating his proposal to visit her, and suggesting the evening as the
time, because she seemed to be so greatly occupied in her
professional capacity during the day. He purposely worded his note
in such a form as not to require an answer from her which would be
possibly awkward to write.

No answer came. Naturally he should not have been surprised at this;
and yet he felt a little checked, even though she had only refrained
from volunteering a reply that was not demanded.

At eight, the hour fixed by himself, he crossed over and was
passively admitted by the servant. Mrs. Frankland, as she called
herself, received him in the large music-and-dancing room on the