in spite of myself.

"I must again beg you"--he proceeded--"to remember what I have already
said, in your estimate of the motives of my offer. If I still appear to
be interfering officiously in your affairs, you have only to think that
I have presumed impertinently on the freedom you have allowed me, and
to treat me no longer on the terms of to-night. I shall not complain of
your conduct, and shall try hard not to consider you unjust to me, if
you do."

Such an appeal as this was not to be resisted: I answered him at once
and unreservedly. What right had I to draw bad inferences from a man's
face, voice, and manner, merely because they impressed me, as out of the
common? Did I know how much share the influence of natural infirmity,
or the outward traces of unknown sorrow and suffering, might have had in
producing the external peculiarities which had struck me? He would
have every right to upbraid me as unjust--and that in the strongest
terms--unless I spoke out fairly in reply.

"I am quite incapable, Mr. Mannion," I said, "of viewing your offer with
any other than grateful feelings. You will find I shall prove this by
employing your good offices for Margaret and myself in perfect faith,
and sooner perhaps than you may imagine."

He bowed and said a few cordial words, which I heard but
imperfectly--for, as I addressed him, a blast of wind fiercer than
usual, rushed down the street, shaking the window shutter violently as
it passed, and dying away in a low, melancholy, dirging swell, like a
spirit-cry of lamentation and despair.

When he spoke again, after a momentary silence, it was to make some
change in the conversation. He talked of Margaret--dwelling in terms of
high praise rather on her moral than on her personal qualities. He
spoke of Mr. Sherwin, referring to solid and attractive points in
his character which I had not detected. What he said of Mrs. Sherwin
appeared to be equally dictated by compassion and respect--he even
hinted at her coolness towards himself, considerately attributing it
to the involuntary caprice of settled nervousness and ill-health. His
language, in touching on these subjects, was just as unaffected, just as
devoid of any peculiarities, as I had hitherto found it when occupied by
other topics.

It was growing late. The thunder still rumbled at long intervals, with
a dull, distant sound; and the wind showed no symptoms of subsiding. But
the pattering of the rain against the window cea