‘Yes—of course; I knew it well.’

‘I thought you must have been aware of the circumstance.’

‘Well! what then?’

‘It puzzles me to guess how it chanced that you never mentioned it to me.’

‘Why should it puzzle you?’

‘It seems odd. I cannot account for it. You talk a great deal—you talk freely. How was that circumstance never touched on?’

‘Because it never was,’ and Shirley laughed.

‘You are a singular being,’ observed her friend. ‘I thought I knew you quite well; I begin to find myself mistaken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor; and now, again, here is another secret. But why you made it a secret is the mystery to me.’

‘I never made it a secret; I had no reason for so doing. If you had asked me who Henry’s tutor was, I would have told you; besides, I thought you knew.’

‘I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter: you don’t like poor Louis—why? Are you impatient at what you perhaps consider his servile position? Do you wish that Robert’s brother were more highly placed?’

‘Robert’s brother, indeed!’ was the exclamation, uttered in a tone like the accents of scorn; and, with a movement of proud impatience, Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peeping through the open lattice.

‘Yes,’ repeated Caroline, with mild firmness—‘Robert’s brother. He is thus closely related to Gérard Moore of the Hollows, though Nature has not given him features so handsome, or an air so noble as his kinsman; but his blood is as good, and he is as much a gentleman, were he free.’

‘Wise, humble, pious Caroline!’ exclaimed Shirley ironically. ‘Men and angels, hear her! We should not despise plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation, should we? Look at the subject of your panegyric—he is there in the garden,’ she continued, pointing through an aperture in the clustering creepers; and by that aperture Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.

‘He is not ugly, Shirley,’ pleaded Caroline; ‘he is not ignoble; he is sad; silence seals his mind; but I believe him to be intelligent, and be certain, if he had not something very commendable in his disposition, Mr. Hall would never seek his society as he does.’

Shirley laughed: she laughed again; each time with a slightly sarcastic sound.

‘Well, well,’ was her comment. ‘On the plea of the man being Cyril Hall’s friend and Robert Moore’s brother, we’ll just tolerate his existence—won’t we, Cary? You believe him to be intelligent, do you? Not quite an idiot—eh? Something commendable in his disposition! id est, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations have weight with me; and to prove that they have, should he come this way I will speak to him.’

He approached the summer-house: unconscious that it was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his customary companion, had followed him, and he couched across his feet.

‘Old boy!’ said Louis, pulling his tawny ear, or rather the mutilated remains of that organ, torn and chewed in a hundred battles, ‘the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don’t we?’