net, while she was leaning against a statue in the entrance-hall, and talking to the housekeeper. At last she said—
"I must stay here a little, Mrs Kell. I will go into the library and write you some memoranda from my uncle's letter, if you will open the shutters for me."
"The shutters are open, madam," said Mrs Kell, following Dorothea, who had walked along as she spoke. "Mr Ladislaw is there, looking for something."
(Will had come to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he had missed in the act of packing his movables, and did not choose to leave behind.)
Dorothea's heart seemed to turn over as if it had had a blow, but she was not perceptibly checked: in truth, the sense that Will was there was for the moment all-satisfying to her, like the sight of something precious that one has lost. When she reached the door she said to Mrs Kell—
"Go in first, and tell him that I am here."
Will had found his portfolio, and had laid it on the table at the far end of the room, to turn over the sketches and please himself by looking at the memorable piece of art which had a relation to
