Nevil looked up and beheld her lifted finger.
'You are composing a love-letter, Nevil!' The accusation sounded like irony.
'No,' said he, puffing; 'I wish I were! 'What can it be, then ?' He thrust pen and paper a hand's length on the table, and gazed at her.
'My dear Nevil, is it really anything serious ?' said she.
'I am writing French, ma'am.' 'Then I may help you.

It must be very absorbing, for you did not hear my knock at your door.' Now, could he trust her?
The widow of a British officer killed nobly fighting for his country in India, was a person to be relied on for active and burning sympathy in a matter that touched the country's honour.

She was a woman, and a woman of spirit.

Men had not pleased him of late.

Something might be hoped from a woman.
He stated his occupation, saying that if she would assist him in his French she would oblige him; the letter must be written and must go.
This was uttered so positively that she bowed her head, amused by the funny semi-tone of defiance to the person to whom he confided the secret.