has adopted the habit of coming to
see me at midnight--passing only through the orchard and through Felix's
painting-room, which has a door opening that way. It seems to amuse
him," added Eugenia, with a little laugh.

Acton felt more surprise than he confessed to, for this was a new view
of Clifford, whose irregularities had hitherto been quite without
the romantic element. He tried to laugh again, but he felt rather too
serious, and after a moment's hesitation his seriousness explained
itself. "I hope you don't encourage him," he said. "He must not be
inconstant to poor Lizzie."

"To your sister?"

"You know they are decidedly intimate," said Acton.

"Ah," cried Eugenia, smiling, "has she--has she"--

"I don't know," Acton interrupted, "what she has. But I always supposed
that Clifford had a desire to make himself agreeable to her."

"Ah, par exemple!" the Baroness went on. "The little monster! The next
time he becomes sentimental I will him tell that he ought to be ashamed
of himself."

Acton was silent a moment. "You had better say nothing about it."

"I had told him as much already, on general grounds," said the Baroness.
"But in this country, you know, the relations of young people are so
extraordinary that one is quite at sea. They are not engaged when
you would quite say they ought to be. Take Charlotte Wentworth, for
instance, and that young ecclesiastic. If I were her father I should
insist upon his marrying her; but it appears to be thought there is no
urgency. On the other hand, you suddenly learn that a boy of twenty
and a little girl who is still with her governess--your sister has no
governess? Well, then, who is never away from her mamma--a young couple,
in short, between whom you have noticed nothing beyond an exchange of
the childish pleasantries characteristic of their age, are on the
point of setting up as man and wife." The Baroness spoke with a certain
exaggerated volubility which was in contrast with the languid grace that
had characterized her manner before Clifford made his appearance. It
seemed to Acton that there was a spark of irritation in her eye--a note
of irony (as when she spoke of Lizzie being never away from her mother)
in her voice. If Madame Munster was irritated, Robert Acton was vaguely
mystified; she began to move about the room again, and he looked at her
without saying anything. Presently she took out her watch, and, glancing
at it, declared that it was three o'clock i