There was some comfort in this. Eleanor made the most of it till she got back to the house. She was then left alone in the drawing–room, and just as it was getting dark Mr Arabin came in.

It was a beautiful afternoon in the beginning of October, and Eleanor was sitting in the window to get the advantage of the last daylight for her novel. There was a fire in the comfortable room, but the weather was not cold enough to make it attractive; and as she could see the sun set from where she sat, she was not very attentive to her book.

Mr Arabin when he entered stood awhile with his back to the fire in his usual way, merely uttering a few commonplace remarks about the beauty of the weather, while he plucked up courage for the more interesting converse. It cannot probably be said that he had resolved then and there to make an offer to Eleanor. Men we believe seldom make such resolve. Mr Slope and Mr Stanhope had done so, it is true; but gentlemen generally propose without any absolutely defined determination as to their doing so. Such was now the case with Mr Arabin.

‘It is a lovely sunset,’ said Eleanor, answering him on the dreadfully trite subject which he had chosen.

Mr Arabin could not see the sunset from the hearth–rug, as he had to go close to her.

‘Very lovely,’ said he, standing modestly so far away from her s to avoid touching the flounces of her dress. Then it appeared that he had nothing further to say; so after gazing for a moment in silence at the brightness of the setting sun, he returned to the fire.

Eleanor found that it was quite impossible for herself to commence a conversation. In the first place she could find nothing to say; words, which were generally plenty enough with her, would not come to her relief. And, moreover, do what she could, she could hardly prevent herself from crying.

‘Do you like Ullathorne?’ said Mr Arabin, speaking from the safely distant position which he had assumed on the hearth–rug.

‘Yes, indeed, very much!’

‘I don’t mean Mr and Miss Thorne. I know you like them; but the style of the house. There is something about old–fashioned mansions, built as this is, and old–fashioned gardens, that to me is especially delightful.’

‘I like everything old–fashioned,’ said Eleanor; ‘old–fashioned things are so much the honestest.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mr Arabin, gently laughing. ‘That is an opinion on which very much may be said on either side. It is strange how widely the world is divided on a subject which so nearly concerns us all, and which is so close beneath our eyes. Some think that we are quickly progressing towards perfection, while others imagine that virtue is disappearing from the earth.’

‘And you, Mr Arabin, what do you think?’ said Eleanor. She felt somewhat surprised at the tone which this conversation was taking, and yet she was quite relieved at his saying something which enabled herself to speak without showing any emotion.

‘What do I think, Mrs Bold?’ and then he rumbled his money with his hand in his trousers pockets, and looked and spoke very little like a thriving lover. ‘It is the bane of my life that on important subjects I acquire no fixed opinion. I think, and think, and go on thinking; and yet my thoughts are running over in different directions. I hardly know whether or no we do lead more confidently than our fathers did on those high hopes to which we profess to aspire.’

‘I think the world grows more worldly every day,’ said Eleanor.

‘That is because you see more of it than when you were younger. But we should hardly judge by what we see,—we see so very very little.’ There was then a pause for a while, during which Mr Arabin continued