She held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it a little caressing stroke.

“In what other way is he good, Lucy?”

“Dr. Bretton is benevolent—humanely disposed towards all his race. Dr. Bretton would have benignity for the lowest savage or the worst criminal.”

“I heard some gentlemen, some of papa’s friends, who were talking about him, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at the hospitals, who tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him.”

“They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over a hospital; I saw how he was received. Your father’s friends are right.”

The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. She had yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Dusk was beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilight ruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.

“How quiet and secluded we feel here!” I remarked, to reassure her.

“Do we? Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be called down to tea. Papa is dining out.”

Still holding my hand, she played with the fingers unconsciously, dressed them, now in her own rings, and now circled them with a twine of her beautiful hair; she patted the palm against her hot cheek, and at last, having cleared a voice that was naturally liquid as a lark’s, she said, “You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr. Bretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but——”

“Not at all strange; perfectly natural. You like him.”

“And if I did,” said she, with slight quickness, “is that a reason why I should talk? I suppose you think me weak, like my cousin Ginevra?”

“If I thought you one whit like Madame Ginevra, I would not sit here waiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease about the room, and anticipate all you had to say by a round lecture. Go on.”

“I mean to go on,” retorted she. “What else do you suppose I mean to do?” And she looked and spoke—the little Polly of Bretton—petulant, sensitive. “If,” said she emphatically—“if I liked Dr. John till I was fit to die for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwise than dumb—dumb as the grave—dumb as you, Lucy Snowe. You know it; and you know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whined about some rickety liking that was all on my side.”

“It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious either in boasting the triumphs or bemoaning the mortifications of feelings. But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hear you. Tell me all it will give you pleasure or relief to tell. I ask no more.”

“Do you care for me, Lucy?”

“Yes, I do, Paulina.”

“And I love you. I had an odd content in being with you even when I was a little, troublesome, disobedient girl. It was charming to me then to lavish on you my naughtiness and whims. Now you are acceptable to me, and I like to talk with and trust you. So listen, Lucy.”