the
feeling which impels a young gentleman to secrete some little private
reminder of its object, it is not gratitude; and Dorothea rejoiced
inwardly that it was not. But what then was it? Some attraction of
sympathy, no doubt. To find herself attractive in any way was a new
experience and delightful. She had forgiven him on the spot. And
afterwards they had danced twice together, and he had praised her
dancing. Also, he had said something about a pretty foot--but
Frenchmen must always be complimenting.

A noise in the street interrupted her thoughts, and reminded her that
she must not be dawdling longer in bed. She shut her teeth, made a
leap for it, and, running to the window, peered over the blind. Some
score of the prisoners in a gang were clearing the pavement with
shovels and brushes, laughing and chattering all the while, and
breaking off to pelt each other with snowballs. She had discussed
these poor fellows with M. Raoul last night. Could she not in some way
add to their comfort, or their pleasure? He had dwelt most upon their
mental weariness, especially on Sundays. Of material discomfort they
never complained, but they dreaded Sundays worse than they dreaded
cold weather. Any small distraction now--.

The train of her recollections came to a sudden halt, before a tall
cheval-glass standing at an obtuse angle to the fireplace and on the
edge of its broad hearthrug. She had been moving aimlessly from the
window to the wardrobe in which Polly had folded and laid away her
last night's finery, and from the wardrobe back to a long sofa at the
bed's foot. And now she found herself standing before the glass and
holding her nightgown high enough to display a foot and ankle on which
she had slipped an ash-coloured stocking and shoe. A tide of red
flooded her neck and face.

* * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Morrish had laid the meal in the ground-floor room, once a
library, but now used as a bank-parlour--yet still preserving the d
ignified aspect of a private room: for banking (as the Westcote clients
were reminded by several sporting prints and a bust of the Medicean
Venus) was in those days of scarce money a branch of philanthropy
rather than of trade. The good caretaker was in tears over the
breakfast. "And I'm sure, Miss, I don't know what's to be done unless
you can eat bacon."

"Which I can," Dorothea assured her.

"Well, Miss, I am sure I envy you; for ever since that poor