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 ceased to be audible.  There was little excuse for staying longer; and I wished to find none.  I had acquired quite knowledge enough of Mr. Mannion to assure me, that any attempt on my part at extracting from him, in spite of his reserve, the secrets which might be connected with his early life, would prove perfectly fruitless.  If I must judge him at all, I must judge him by the experience of the present, and not by the history of the past.  I had heard good, and good only, of him from the shrewd master who knew him best, and had tried him longest.  He had shown the greatest delicacy towards my feelings, and the strongest desire to do me service—­it would be a mean return for those acts of courtesy, to let curiosity tempt me to pry into his private affairs.