Mr Arabin sat ruminating and rubbing his face, and wondering why these things were said to him; but he replied nothing. The signora went on—

‘The greatest mistake any man ever made is to suppose that the good things of the world are not worth the winning. And it is a mistake so opposed to the religion which you preach! Why does God permit his bishops one after the other to have their five thousands and ten thousands a year if such wealth be bad and not worth having? Why are beautiful things given to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments, if they be not intended to be used? They must be meant for some one, and what is good for a layman cannot surely be bad for a clerk. You try to despise these good things, but you only try; you don’t succeed.’

‘Don’t I,’ said Mr Arabin, still musing, and not knowing what he said.

‘I ask you the question: do you succeed?’

Mr Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed to him as though he were being interrogated by some inner spirit of his own, to whom he could not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not dare to give a false reply.

‘Come, Mr Arabin, confess; do you succeed? Is money so contemptible? Is worldly power so worthless? Is feminine beauty a trifle to be so slightly regarded by a wise man?’

‘Feminine beauty!’ said he, gazing into her face, as though all the feminine beauty in the world was concentrated there. ‘Why do you say I do not regard it?’

‘If you look at me like that, Mr Arabin, I shall alter my opinion—or should do so, were I not of course aware that I have no beauty of my own worth regarding.’

The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A slightly increased colour animated her face, just so much so as to give her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from her admirer, but she was rather grateful than otherwise by finding that he did not pay it to her. Messrs Slope and Thorne, Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was rather in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in inducing Mr Arabin to abuse her.

‘But your gaze,’ said she, ‘is one of wonder, and not of admiration. You wonder at my audacity in asking you such questions about yourself.’

‘Well, I do rather,’ said he.

‘Nevertheless I expect an answer, Mr Arabin. Why were women made beautiful if men are not to regard them?’

‘But men do regard them,’ he replied.

‘And why not you?’

‘You are begging the question, Madame Neroni.’

‘I am sure that I shall beg nothing, Mr Arabin, which you will not grant, and I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule think women below your notice as companions? Let us see. There is the widow Bold looking round at you from her chair this minute. What would you say to her as a companion for life?’

Mr Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa and looked through the drawing–room door to the place where Eleanor was seated between Bertie Stanhope and Mr Slope. She at once caught his glance, and averted her own. She was not pleasantly placed in her present position. Mr Slope was doing his best to attract her attention; and she was striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr Stanhope, while her mind was intently fixed on Mr Arabin and Madame Neroni. Bertie Stanhope endeavoured to