`Yes,' said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny in her arms, and now, not quite knowing what to do, sat down again.

Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on the floor, and sat down in the chair close by her. He had never done so before, and both he and Maggie were quite aware that it was an entirely new position.

`Well, you pampered minion!' said Stephen, leaning to pull the long curly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It was not a suggestive remark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by further development, it naturally left the conversation at a stand-still. It seemed to Stephen like some action in a dream that he was obliged to do, and wonder at himself all the while - to go on stroking Minny's head. Yet it was very pleasant: he only wished he dared look at Maggie, and that she would look at him, - let him have one long look into those deep strange eyes of hers and then he would be satisfied and quite reasonable after that. He thought it was becoming a sort of monomania with him, to want that long look from Maggie, and he was racking his invention continually to find out some means by which he could have it without its appearing singular and entailing subsequent embarrassment. As for Maggie she had no distinct thought - only the sense of a presence like that of a closely-hovering broad-winged bird in the darkness, for she was unable to look up and saw nothing but Minny's back wavy coat.

But this must end some time - perhaps it ended very soon, and only seemed long, as a minute's dream does. Stephen at last sat upright, sideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm over the back and looking at Maggie. What should he say?

`We shall have a splendid sunset, I think. Shan't you go out and see it?'

`I don't know,' said Maggie. Then, courageously raising her eyes and looking out of the window, `If I'm not playing cribbage with my uncle.'

A pause: during which Minny is stroked again, but has sufficient insight not to be grateful for it - to growl rather.

`Do you like sitting alone?'

A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and just glancing at Stephen, she said, `Would it be quite civil to say "yes"?'

`It was rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask,' said Stephen, delighted with that glance, and getting determined to stay for another. `But you will have more than half an hour to yourself after I am gone,' he added, taking out his watch. `I know Mr Deane never comes in till half-past seven.'

Another pause: during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window, till by a great effort she moved her head to look down at Minny's back again, and said,

`I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our music.'

`We shall have a new voice tomorrow night,' said Stephen. `Will you tell your cousin that your friend Philip Wakem is come back? I saw him as I went home.'

Maggie gave a little start - it seemed hardly more than a vibration that passed from head to foot in an instant. But the new images summoned by Philip's name, dispersed half the oppressive spell she had been under. She rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, and laying Minny on his cushion went to reach Lucy's large work-basket from its corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed: he thought, perhaps Maggie didn't like the name of Wakem to be mentioned to her in that abrupt way - for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of the family quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table with her work and looking chill and proud; and he - he looked like a simpleton