Graham, however, must go: his was a profession whose claims are neither to be ignored nor deferred. He left the room; but before he could leave the house there was a return. I am sure he came back⁠—not for the paper, or card in his desk, which formed his ostensible errand⁠—but to assure himself, by one more glance, that Paulina’s aspect was really such as memory was bearing away: that he had not been viewing her somehow by a partial, artificial light, and making a fond mistake. No! he found the impression true⁠—rather, indeed, he gained than lost by this return: he took away with him a parting look⁠—shy, but very soft⁠—as beautiful, as innocent, as any little fawn could lift out of its cover of fern, or any lamb from its meadow-bed.

Being left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time; we both took out some work, and plied a mute and diligent task. The whitewood workbox of old days was now replaced by one inlaid with precious mosaic, and furnished with implements of gold; the tiny and trembling fingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now swift and skilful: but there was the same busy knitting of the brow, the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and movements⁠—now to replace a stray tress, and anon to shake from the silken skirt some imaginary atom of dust⁠—some clinging fibre of thread.