Janet withdrew as quickly as she could from the drawing-room when she had given Dolff the tea which he now took so regularly, and which his family considered such a sign of mental and moral reformation. There was indeed no chance of being left alone with him, which was the thing of all others she most wished to avoid, for Mrs. Harwood could not go away, and was always present when she had once been wheeled into the room; but Janet knew that Dolff would ask her to come to the piano, and take advantage of the withdrawal there to say things to her which made it very difficult to keep him at arm’s length as she wished. She turned away while he was talking to his mother, stealing out of the room, knowing that her absence would be felt by both, but longing to escape, feeling the agitation and excitement more than she could bear. And there could be no doubt that to-night that agitation would be stronger than ever, for Meredith was sure to come to talk over the dance, as was almost necessary considering his intimacy in the house; and her heart beat wildly when she thought of meeting him again in the presence of them all, Gussy and Dolff, and the mother whose secret they had discovered. All of the three were more or less wronged in that secret alliance which had been formed between Meredith and Janet; an alliance, was it, or a conspiracy? The girl shrank into herself for a moment when she thought of this, and of the unsuspecting family who knew nothing of it, and would receive Meredith with such warm kindness, and was so good to herself. She shrank—but then forgot everything else in the consciousness that she should meet him to-night—that once more they would be in the same room, and that with his eyes at least he would say to her many wonderful agitating things.

Perhaps this secrecy, and the absorbing excitement there was in meeting him under the eyes of those who were so deceived, who were so little aware of what was going on beneath, held Janet’s interest more than anything else. A conspiracy has always a strange fascination in it, and to carry on secret communications in the face of every scrutiny, and balk suspicion, and baffle watchfulness, has, especially to the very young, a piquancy which legitimate intercourse often does not have. Janet could not escape the sense of guilt, but the interest, the dramatic combinations that would be gone through in the evening, her own position as the heroine of the situation, a place which Gussy thought was hers, but which was not hers, was too strong, or Janet’s conscience too weak to conquer. Everything yielded to the thought of what he would say. How he would manage all the conflicting elements, whether he would be able to say a word to her to tell her if he had received her letter. It was far more engrossing, far more absorbing than any play.

And it may be imagined what a party it was that sat awaiting Meredith in the bright room where Mrs. Harwood sat, with the dimmer one beyond, where all the light centred in the white keys of the piano. Gussy was full of an expectation, not quite serene indeed, but calmer than might have been supposed; for, now that she knew all immediate change to be impossible, she had schooled herself to think that what had been said about a year was in itself a sort of decision upon which, since better could not be, her position for the future might be founded. She awaited his coming, accordingly, with more composure than usual, with a sort of secret assurance, as almost her betrothed—kept from being so only by that exaggerated sense of honor which made her impatient sometimes, yet was nevertheless, in its way, in the mistaken way of men, a high quality. To be able to think highly of the man she loves, although she may think him mistaken, or even wrong—to believe that he is wrong in what is, according to his lights, a chivalrous and high-minded way, is always delightful to a woman. She had reasoned herself into this view of the matter, and she sat accordingly in what poor Gussy thought was her most becoming dress, with a countenance full of light and a heart full of trembling comfort, awaiting her lover.

Dolff was a little sulky: he was disappointed and troubled that Janet had run away from him after tea, just when they might have had, he said to himself, a quiet hour, undisturbed by anyone, either for music or talk. Now that fellow Meredith would come and take possession of the piano, and make an exhibition of himself and his singing all night—keeping everybody else out in the cold. Dolff thought that it was not fair. He ought to be the first to be considered in the house; not a fellow who has not even the pluck to speak out, who was dangling on forever without coming to anything. That would never be Dolff’s case. Difficulty in making up his mind was not a fault of his. He knew what he wanted, and, by Jove, he would have it, too, whatever his mother might say. They would want him to marry somebody with money, he knew; but there was only one woman in the world whom he would ever marry, and what did it matter to him whether they gave their consent or not?

Thus he mused, sitting as near as he could to Janet, talking to her about the music. Talking about music threw dust in the eyes of his mother and sister, and stopped any interference on their part—and she understood well enough what he meant. She was so quick—at the first word, almost before you were aware yourself, she knew what you meant. She was the most wonderful creature that had ever been born; there was none like her, none.

I wonder if Mrs. Harwood, sitting by the side of the fire, had any idea what was going on in the minds of the young people who surrounded her, and who were ready to start, at a word from her, to do anything she wanted. They all thought she had not. Gussy believed that her mother, save for the momentary surprise she had expressed, was entirely satisfied with Meredith, and calmly considered him as one of the family. Dolff thought that his rising passion for Janet would burst upon his mother as a great discovery, calling forth her wrath and (ineffectual) resistance when he should announce it to her. And Janet? Janet was the only one who was not so sure. She was quicker in perception than either of them; and there were looks in Mrs. Harwood’s eyes sometimes which did not consist with the quiescence of her rÔle as a mere good-natured mother of a family, living only to humor her children. Besides, Janet was aware of the secret in this genial woman’s life. She knew that there must have been something deeper, something more tragical in it than anybody suspected.

Mrs. Harwood, motionless in her chair, taking every accident with such perfect good-humor, smoothing everybody down, no doubt observing everything, was the one in the party of whom Janet was afraid. But her children were so well accustomed to her, so dutifully, habitually disregardful of her, taking her for granted, as children do, that they made little account of her watchfulness and knowledge. “Mamma takes no notice,” they said and thought.

“I wish you’d just try over this thing with me, Miss Summerhayes. I want to have it perfect,” said Dolff.

“Oh, please do give us a little respite, Dolff—we know all your songs by heart.”

“I did not ask you,” said Dolff, with fraternal rudeness. “So do I know all your songs by heart—and Meredith’s—and I don’t think much of them. Besides, this is none of my old songs,” he said, with a little shyness. “It’s one Miss Summerhayes looked up for me, and I know you’ll like it, mother—something old and nice—not classical, which is not in my way——”

“I should think not, indeed,” said Gussy, with scorn.

“Or the other, which I used to like: but I don’t care for them now. Miss Summerhayes—oh,” he continued, rudely, “here’s that fellow; I suppose we shall have to give it up for to-night?”

“There is no reason why you should give up, Dolff. You speak as if Charley—who has far more sense—would ever interfere with you.”

“Oh, I know!” said Dolff, digging his hands into his pockets. He brought the song he had intended to sing to Janet, and standing behind her chair showed her how he had marked it in consonance with her teachings. “You said this was to be very piano” said Dolff, “it’s not how the stupid printers have done it, but I am sure you know best.”

This appeal to her, though she felt it almost intolerable, carried Janet through the moment of Meredith’s entrance. Gussy rose to meet him, going forward a step involuntarily with the instinctive air of being the person most concerned. He shook hands with Janet as with the rest, pressing her hand as she hoped he did not press the others, till she had nearly cried out, and giving her a look under his eyebrows, which she felt to mean that he had received her communication. And then he sat down, and Dolff retreated, giving up to the superior influence. Meredith brought in with him a changed atmosphere altogether. The humdrum family routine, with all its little subdued oppositions and disagreements, but dull surface of unity, quickened into interest. He divided his smiling looks, his little flattering bantering speeches, among them all.

“Well,” he said, “let’s talk of last night. I suppose that’s still uppermost in all our minds. I hope that you are all quite convinced that it was the greatest possible success.”

“You know,” said Gussy, “we are not very sanguine people in this family. We are always seized with secret doubts afterwards whether all our friends were not making believe to enjoy themselves.”

“I cannot say that is my frame of mind,” said her mother; “yes, I thought it went off very well. Everybody looked pleased; they ate a very good supper, and there was no getting them out of the house. I don’t at all think they were making believe.”

“Ah, mamma, but you’re not quite a Harwood, as I often tell you.”

“You are the best judge, Mrs. Harwood,” said Meredith, “for you look on and see the game. We are all so much engaged in thinking of our own parts that we never take in the whole.”

“I see, perhaps, more that I am supposed to see; but I don’t pretend to be omniscient, Charley, as you give me credit for.”

“With an eye for everything,” he said, laughing—“for our vagaries, all and sundry, and for the supper, and for Vicars and who knows how many private matters besides.”

“Vicars,” said Gussy; “he is the least of mamma’s cares, I should think. He is the most invaluable person for such a party as we had last night. He is the best servant I ever saw, though one might think, as he does so little household work, that he would get out of the way. But he doesn’t. He never forgets anything——”

“Oh, that’s a great deal to say,” said Meredith, again with a laugh. “I think I’ve seen occasions on which he has been caught out.”

Mrs. Harwood took no notice of this, though her attention quickened.

“Vicars,” she said, tranquilly, “is a very old servant; but I think you may give me some credit, for I superintended everything last night.”

Meredith gave Janet a look. Did anybody see it, could anyone notice it, but herself? The secret that they both knew seemed to burn between them like a link of fire.

“Everything,” he said, “is a big word.”

The laugh with which he accompanied this seemed to Janet full of suggestion, and as if he intended his hearers to understand that there was something beneath; but this was probably only her excited consciousness, for he began at once to plunge into details of how Miss Robinson danced all the evening with Mr. Green, and the hard ado he himself had to prevent two rival mothers from coming to blows.

“For I hope you all saw how I devoted myself to supper and the old ladies,” he said.

“You did not dance very much, I perceived,” said Gussy.

“No; and chiefly with the plain people, the people who had no partners.” He sent a laughing glance towards Janet. “Indeed, I think I may give myself credit for having quite fulfilled my rÔle of the next friend—the next after the son of the house.”

“Dolff does not understand his duties in that way,” said Mrs. Harwood. “He dances with all the prettiest people, and never goes near the dowagers; but Charley, I think, is taking too much credit to himself.”

“You seem to me,” said Dolff, returning from the outer room still with his hands in his pockets, “to be making a great deal of talk about nothing. I didn’t see that it required such dreadful exertions to make the dance go off. It went off of itself, as dances usually do, so far as I can see.”

“Dolff settles the matter like a Daniel come to judgment. Well, I can only say for myself that last night is one that I shall remember all my life. For finding out more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in anyone’s philosophy, commend me to a dance.”

“Finding out?” said Gussy, with a look of surprise.

“Oh, yes; the hearts are uncovered like the shoulders, and all the corners of the house open. Don’t you agree with me, Miss Summerhayes?”

Janet fell a thrill of terror come over her. What did he mean? Was he going to disclose their discovery, to demand explanations?

“I don’t think,” she said, faltering, “that I—wanted to find out anything. It was a very nice dance.”

“That’s what I say,”, said Dolff. “I don’t understand metaphysics. But it was not quite such a nice dance as I hoped,” he said once more, stooping over Janet’s chair.

It is probable that this last little speech was not intended to be heard, but there was a pause at this moment, and as a matter of fact it was audible enough. Mrs. Harwood and Gussy both looked towards the speaker, whose boyish face was a little flushed as he looked down upon the governess. It diverted their attention from the fact that there was something strange, not quite comprehensible, in what Meredith had said. They were not susceptible about the discoveries that could be made in their house; perhaps, Gussy thought, though his language was a little strange, that all he said was directed to herself, to impress upon her the communications of last night, and to make it more and more evident to her that, little as had been said then, he considered the evening a turning-point in his life. She was very willing to adopt this view. It flattered all her feelings, and confirmed her wishes. He was wrong, oh, very wrong, in that point of honor of his; but he was very anxious. And that, notwithstanding the visionary necessity that sealed his lips, she should fully understand him she threw herself into the discussion and led him on to the gossip of which he was a master, and which amused Mrs. Harwood. They took all the ladies and their toilets to pieces, and Meredith had various stories, funny and otherwise, to tell of the men.

In society of every kind the characters of the absent are often torn to pieces with no particular motive, or one which is half good, to divert the minds of the audience from more important things. The friends of the Harwoods suffered in this way, because the situation had become, nobody knew how, somewhat strained, and the conversation, no one could understand wherefore, uncomfortably significant—and this holocaust was offered up with the usual advantageous results.