"Where? Why, in my own bed at
Bounderby's."

"Did you see your sister?"

"How the deuce," returned Tom, staring,
"could I see my sister when she was fifteen
miles off?"

Cursing these quick retorts of the young
gentleman to whom he was so true a friend,
Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed himself of
that interview with the smallest conceivable
amount of ceremony, and debated for the
hundredth time what all this could mean?
He made only one thing clear. It was, that
whether she was in town or out of town,
whether he had been premature with her who
was so hard to comprehend, or she had lost
courage, or they were discovered, or some
mischance or mistake at present incomprehensible
had occurred, he must remain to
confront his fortune, whatever it was. The hotel
where he was known to live when condemned
to that region of blackness, was the stake to
which he was tied. As to all the rest—What
will be, will be.

"So, whether I am waiting for a hostile
message, or an assignation, or a penitent
remonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with
my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner
—which would seem as likely as anything
else in the present state of affairs—I'll dine,"
said Mr. James Harthouse. "Bounderby
has the advantage in point of weight; and if
anything of a British nature is to come off
between us, it may be as well to be in training."

Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing
himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some
dinner at six—with a beefsteak in it," and got
through the intervening time as well as he
could. That was not particularly well; for he
remained in the greatest perplexity, and,
as the hours went on, and no kind of
explanation offered itself, his perplexity
augmented at compound interest.

However, he took affairs as coolly as it
was in human nature to do, and entertained
himself with the facetious idea of the training
more than once. "It wouldn't be bad," he
yawned at one time, "to give the waiter five
shillings, and throw him." At another time it
occurred to him, "Or a fellow of about thirteen
or fourteen stone might be hired by the
hour." But these jests did not tell materially
on the afternoon, or his suspense; and,
sooth to say, they both lagged fearfully.

It was impossible, even before dinner, to
avoid often walking about in the pattern
of the carpet, looking out of the window, listening
at the door for footsteps, and occasionally
becoming rather hot when any steps approached
that room. But, after dinner, when the day
turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to
night, and still no communication was made
to him, it began to be, as he expressed it,
"like the Holy Office and slow torture."
However, still true to his conviction that
indifference was the genuine high-breeding
(the only conviction he had), he seized this
crisis as the opportunity for ordering candles
and a newspaper.

He had been trying in vain, for half an
hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter
appeared and said, at once mysteriously and
apologetically:

"Beg your pardon, sir. You're wanted,
sir, if you please."

A general recollection that this was the
kind of thing the Police said to the swell mob,
caused Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter in
return, with bristling indignation, what the
Devil he meant by "wanted?''

"Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside,
sir, wishes to see you."

"Outside? Where?"

"Outside this door, sir."

Giving the waiter to the personage before-
mentioned, as a blockhead duly qualified for
that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried
into the gallery. A young woman whom he
had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed,
very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted
her into the room and placed a chair for her,
he observed, by the light of the candles, that
she was even prettier than he had at first
believed. Her face was innocent and youthful,
and its expression remarkably pleasant. She
was not afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted;
she seemed to have her mind entirely
pre-occupied with the occasion of her visit,
and to have substituted that consideration
for herself.

"I speak to Mr. Harthouse?" she said,
when they were alone.

"To Mr. Harthouse." He added in his
mind, "And you speak to him with the most
confiding eyes I ever saw, and the most
earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard."

"If I do not understand—and I do not,
sir"—said Sissy, "what your honor as a
gentleman binds you to, in other matters:"
the blood really rose in his face as she began
in these words: "I am sure I may rely upon
it to keep my visit secret, and to keep secret
what I am going to say. I will rely upon
it, if you will tell me I may so far trust you.

"You may, I assure you."

"I am young, as you see; I am alone, as
you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no
advice or encouragement beyond my own
hope."

He thought, "But that is very strong," as
he followed the momentary upward glance of
her eyes. He thought besides, "This is a
very odd beginning. I don't see where we
are going."

"I think," said Sissy, "you have already
guessed whom I left just now?"

"I have been in the greatest concern and
uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty
hours (which have appeared as many years),"
he returned, "on a lady's account. The
hopes I have been encouraged to form that
you come from that lady, do not deceive me,
I trust."