Mr Thornton was late leaving for his engagement with the Hale's, and - priding himself on his punctuality - he strode briskly across town towards Crampton, calling at the house precisely at the allotted time of half-past seven. He was greeted with an affable smile by kindly Mr Hale, and then led upstairs to their small drawing-room. He was introduced first to Mrs Hale, who was undoubtedly a small and sickly creature, and so he allowed her cold manner of greeting to be attributed to ill health. He bowed to Margaret - who was busy lighting candles as the evening gloom stole in - despite the curtains being not yet drawn - and his eyes came to rest on Mr Hale's goddaughter, who offered him a warm smile before promptly looking away.

With alacrity, did Margaret turn to the tea things and busy herself in her new occupation, allowing Mr Thornton the opportunity to examine the room. It was small in proportion, to be sure, and the contents and decorations were not nearly so fine as those found in his own home, but the room was undoubtedly more comfortable; more inviting. Faded chintz curtains hung prettily at the edge of each window, and chair covers added colour to the room. Mr Thornton silently admired the new papers he had requested from Mr Donkin - the landlord - and took pleasure in noting the delicate little touches to the room; a vase of flowers here, an aged ornament there. The room had a soft and overtly-feminine feel to it - so unlike the austere and traditional ambience favoured by his mother - and he felt certain that the effect of the room was Miss Hale's doing, for surely only such a proud and feminine beauty could arrange such a warming setting. He cast his eyes about the room again, and noted small piles of books - lying hastily discarded, as though having just been put down - and narrowed his eyes to read the title of the tome beside Miss Darrow. Plato's Republic! thought he, wondering if it was Miss Darrow herself, who had been reading such a book, or whether she had simply taken up the seat beside it by chance, but his attention was soon stolen by Miss Hale, who was about the task of pouring tea.

He watched her graceful movement as her straight back and elegantly curved neck stood over the tea tray, gentle taper fingers pouring and stirring, and with each passing moment, did he see a bracelet upon her wrist fall loose and land about her hand. The irritating ornament was hastily pushed back up the arm until it kissed the skin and tightened, and the hands would busy themselves with the teapot once again, only for the bracelet to work itself loose. Mr Thornton held back a smile as he watched the band's journey, for he could predict - almost to the second - when the ornament should fall, and there - it did! - and Margaret disinterestedly slipped the bracelet back up her arm. He was enchanted; this feminine domesticity; the welcoming ambiance of the room and the beauty of the creature before him; so graceful, so poised. It was a vexation to him that the tea was seen to so quickly, stealing from him his opportunity to continue gazing upon her, for at that moment did she come towards him with an offering of tea, and - chin lifted in her haughty way of old - did she hand him his tea with the attitude of a reluctant servant. It irked him; he felt himself bristle, but he was no weak man, and was able to control his feelings, so he simply smiled his thanks and sipped at his tea, watching as Miss Hale moved to her father and offered him her hand. Gently did he take it in his own, and manipulating thumb and finger, did he fashion himself a pair of sugar tongs, by which to add a sweetener to his tea. Margaret smiled happily at her father; her face aglow with a warm and tender openness - the likes of which Mr Thornton has never seen in her before - and he reasoned that where Miss Hale loved, she would love fiercely. If father or daughter had known they were observed, they may have curtailed their little piece of pantomime, but both were absorbed only in the other, so neither caught the warmth in Mr Thornton's eyes as he watched the exchange, but Isabel saw it, and was gratified. Just as in the book, she told herself, with a wistful sigh. She did not wish the rest of the evening to follow the same pattern, for she knew it would not end well.

Margaret sat back and took up her needlework beside her mother, casting a cautious eye over her father and his friend. Never before has she noticed the stark contrast between both men; never had it seemed so amplified as it was before her then - sat in the cramped parlour. Her father - slight as he was - had a slender elegance about him which usually gave the impression of height, but beside the massive, powerful and imposing frame of Mr Thornton, Mr Hale lost all advantage of stature. His face was well-lined - as per his age - but the lines were soft and supple, dancing about his features as he spoke and smiled, offering the observer an outward expression of each emotion as it passed through him. In contrast, Mr Thornton's face had only a few lines - predominantly about the mouth - and these few were deep and firm, as though he was the work of some endowed stonemason. His brows were low about his eyes, which were so brilliantly blue, so piercing, as to be almost frightening. Margaret felt, in looking upon this northern man, that if he should choose to study her, and look into her eyes, that he would divine the very essence of her soul, and the very thought of it repelled her. Such eyes, she thought, were not eyes one would wish to be looked upon with; they were too invasive, too intimidating, and so very unlike her father's, which were gentle and languid; almost feminine in nature. But then her father spoke, and his friend's lips parted as his face broke out into the truest and most spontaneous smile she has ever seen; indeed - no man smiled so openly, so unguardedly. It was the gifted smile of an innocent child, and as the perfect, brilliantly-white teeth were bared through parted lips, the eyes danced with a warm merriment which suddenly transformed their severity, and made looking upon them a thing of beauty, rather than a thing of revulsion. That smile of his was the very first thing Margaret had been able to admire in Mr Thornton, and with a magnanimous sigh, she was able to acknowledge that perhaps her father favoured the man so greatly because of their sheer contrast of build and nature.

Isabel, watching her new friend observe Mr Thornton, was pleased to see that Margaret had made a study of him. She was gratified that when that radiant smile had lit Mr Thornton's face, there had been a hint of approval in Margaret's own, but she was troubled to find that the very same smile - so flawless and instinctively given - made her heart pound in her breast, and she realised that she was in danger of feeling for the man something she had no right to feel. Anxiously it was, then, that she determined she would look upon their guest no further; that she would not attend to their conversation, and would seek no active part in the remainder of the evening.

Her ambition was thwarted, however, when Margaret - after having spent some time speaking with her mother in low tones - turned back to her needlework and, warmed by the fire, fatigued by hanging curtains and taking her daily walk, began to doze in her chair. Mrs Hale was too inactive - too preoccupied in her invalid state to notice - and so it was that Isabel found herself the only lady able to attend to their guest, anticipating the draining of his teacup precisely as it was accomplished.

Startled by movement from the corner of the room, Mr Thornton looked up to see Miss Darrow rise with what appeared to be an innate vigour, consciously sedated. She moved silently to the tea tray, and with a steady hand re-filled his cup. He was pleased to note that she had observed exactly how he liked to take his tea, and sat back to watch her as she silently moved about the party, pouring fresh tea for all - even the sleeping Miss Hale.

'Peanut fudge?' asked Isabel, with a slight frown, as she held out a small plate containing little squares of confection. His brow dipped in reply and Mr Hale smiled.

'Please do, John. Isabel made it herself and neither my wife nor daughter have a sweet tooth.'

'You made this?' asked Mr Thornton in a low voice, reining in his surprise. Her slight blush was reply enough, and he quickly took a small piece, placing it between parted lips. Mr Thornton had a fondness for sweet foods, but very rarely indulged - his mother finding anything so dainty to be frivolous - and so it was with relish that he accepted a second small piece. He would have taken a third - for there was plenty to be had - but noticed that Mr Hale appeared to favour a rather dry-looking cocoa-nut cake, and Miss Darrow did not choose to eat at all. The two other ladies partook of nothing; Mrs Hale being of little appetite or conversation, and Miss Hale still slumbering soundly in her chair.

It was, therefore, with only one ready listener, that Mr Thornton slipped into conversation with Mr Hale, about the rise of the machine within Milton; about the abilities and drive of his kinsman who had within their grasp, the power and knowledge to apply science to a new age of manufacturing. Indeed, so rapt was Mr Thornton in his conversation, that he did not have room to spare a thought for the ladies of the room, and as Mr Hale replied with the line from Chevy Chace, "I've a hundred captains in England. As good as ever was he", in response to Mr Thornton's supposed boast of Milton men, he turned to his teacher, speaking with unguarded fervour.

'It is no boast! It is a matter-of-fact. It is true, I am proud to belong to this town and its people; that such a place can bear true innovations of science. This energetic town, where man strives to move forward; yes, I am proud to belong to it. I should rather toil here - whether I should succeed or fail, than live an idle life of prosperity in the south. In such a place one would stagnate, and lose the capacity to innovate or grow.' But Margaret had awoken not a moment before, at the rousing excitement of Mr Thornton's low tones, and was immediately jealous of the aspersions Mr Thornton so ignorantly cast upon her beloved south.

'You are quite mistaken. You know nothing of the south!' cried Margaret, defensively. 'It may offer a slower pace of life, there may be less excitement, but there is undoubtedly less suffering. I have walked about this town and seen the appalling conditions in which the working poor reside. In the south we have our poor, but their faces are not downcast; their spirit is not broken. No, sir; you know nothing of the south.' Her voice trembled, her hands shifted awkwardly in her lap, and Mr Thornton was concerned to see that he had truly hurt her feelings with his proclamation for the north. Still, he was a proud man, and wished to speak, but did so with a surprising gentleness which belied his great size and strength.

'Then may I say to you, Miss Hale, that you do not know the north?' Margaret was still greatly discomposed, and Mrs Hale, anxious of confrontation, but unwilling to say one word in Milton's favour, spoke up timidly for the first time that evening.

'You must allow, though, Mr Thornton, that this is a very dirty town; the air so very smoky. We have not the like in the south.' Mr Thornton smiled, his perfect white teeth gleaming, and Isabel felt her stomach knot.

'I cannot argue for its cleanliness, but parliament bids us to burn our own smoke, so we must do as we are told.' Mr Hale then asked about an alteration he knew Mr Thornton to have made to the chimneys in his mill, and so it was that the two men began speaking on matters of business yet again, but they now found themselves with three ready listeners instead of one, all three of which, hearing Mr Thornton explain to Mr Hale how parliament sought to meddle in their business.

'And parliament tries to dictate the manner and time in which a man may sell his wares. Imagine that, to be told such a thing?' declared Mr Thornton, shaking his head. 'If I had a good and loyal customer come to my doorstep at midnight and request to buy from me, I should rise from my bed and gladly receive his orders.' Mrs Hale's lips curled distastefully; she did not care for such open regard for trade, and Margaret, herself, could not fathom what was so very great about the machine; why the manufacturer - despite his wealth - ought to be able to determine his own means and method of business; why he must be so fiercely independent.

'To what purpose?' asked she, watching the gentleman intently. 'Such fervent action - such discord with parliament, and for what?' Mr Thornton blinked in confusion, failing to understand her derision. 'You make cotton, Mr Thornton,' explained Margaret, 'cotton which nobody wishes to wear!' Mr Thornton's face instantly darkened at her slight of his life's work, and Isabel, piqued by Margaret's blunder, could not help but make a retort.

'No one wishes to wear!' cried Isabel, her voice rising with passion. 'Why, Margaret, you do not understand market forces; clearly you do not or you would not speak so.' Scowling, Margaret turned to her companion; she did not care to be spoken to in such a way; certainly not before a guest. 'This smoky place your mother spoke of only a short time ago - the air is so very black with soot from the billowing smokestacks; the evidence of the thriving cotton industry within this city. Now you claim no one wishes to wear cotton, but think on this; if no one wishes to wear it, no one shall buy it. If no one shall buy it, no manufacture shall produce it, and yet here we are, living in this dirty, smoky town, where all about us is cotton. That is market forces for you, Margaret. People most certainly wish to wear cotton; wish to buy cotton.'

'Perhaps some do - at certain levels of society - but we merely speak of cotton. What is cotton?' replied Margaret, indignantly. Her cheeks were flushed at her companion's impertinence. 'Is it worth the oppression of the poor, merely so the masters can make themselves rich?' And at this last, she turned back to face Mr Thornton; he, himself, intrigued by the exchange between the two ladies.

'Oppression?' asked Mr Thornton, irritated, but determined to explain; to have his point made and his defence given. 'There is no oppression. The hands are ignorant. They do not understand the way of business. It is their ignorance which oppresses them; not my heavy hand.'

'So then you think all men who have not risen to your level have only themselves to blame?' accused Margaret, her cheeks flushed in irritation.

'No!' scowled Mr Thornton, weary of being wilfully misunderstood. And yet, he could say something to explain; to bridge the gap in understanding between them, but it was not a topic he wished to speak on. He glanced quickly about the room; his friend was unsettled by the heated exchanges between the three younger members of the party, but he caught Isabel watching him intently, as though willing him to speak. With a sigh, he relented. 'I do know something of hardship,' he explained, his jaw firm, his cheek black. 'My father died in - very miserable circumstances - when I was but sixteen. I was taken from school and quickly made a man. I worked so as to provide for my mother and sister; it took great discipline, it taught me self-denial. It was not a privileged existence. I was not gifted my current position - it was earned through hard work and determination, through discipline and resolve. My mother taught me those skills so that I might provide for our family, and so I have, now allowing my mother the comforts her age requires. For that - for the early training my mother instilled in me - I shall be forever thankful. I think that my only privilege in life; my only true advantage. And so saying, when I speak of the poor and their ignorance, it is not their lack of work or education which I scorn, but their weakness of character; their idleness in attempting to raise themselves from their low position; those self-indulgent creatures who feel they are owed a living and ought to have what others have, but do not determine to seek it for themselves; do not take the time or the trouble.' Isabel smiled. He was eloquent. She had known him to be, but hearing him in person, she found him to be far more so.

Mr Thornton stood up to leave; he was uncomfortable at having spoken so candidly of his past, and he felt for his friend in having brought such open confrontation into his home. He shook hands with Mr and Mrs Hale, and moved to take Margaret's hand, but she had not expected such a gesture - unaccustomed as she was to northern ways - and so she shied away from his well-meaning handshake, and offered a tentative bow of farewell instead. Mr Thornton - unaware that Margaret was unfamiliar with the custom - felt slighted, and it was with a grim expression that he turned hesitantly to Miss Darrow. She, however, thrust out a ready hand with a warm smile upon her lips, and he thanked her with a grateful smile of his own.

Their hands met, and Isabel's lips parted in awe. I am touching him; I am touching Mr Thornton's bare hand! she told herself, in disbelief. He, himself, was aware of a strange sensation passing through him, but he was too unsettled - too greatly displeased - to analyse that feeling, and dropped her hand carelessly before turning from the room. Mr Hale had observed the whole, and saw how Margaret had offended his friend by refusing to take his hand, and he was desirous to make amends, but his wife flagged with fatigue, and he grudgingly moved to assist her to her room.

'I shall see myself out,' offered Mr Thornton in understanding; the wife appeared to be quite feeble.

'I shall get the door, sir. And your hat and gloves,' offered Isabel, moving swiftly from the room before he could reply. He was in the hallway - questioning where she had got to - when he saw her move quickly and silently from the kitchen below stairs. She smiled at him and handed him a box with an outstretched arm. 'Fudge, Mr Thornton. I noticed you were partial to it.' He took the box - surprised but flattered - and moved to take his hat from her hands. He waited in fascination as he watched her smooth the nape of the beaver skin before she passed it to him, and with a small smile of thanks, he set it upon his head and slipped his long fingers into his gloves before taking up his gift of confectionary.

'Forgive my impertinence, Mr Thornton, but in the south, a young, unmarried lady would not be expected to take a gentleman's hand in such a fashion. I believe Margaret was simply taken by surprise; she will not have wished to cause you any offense.' She spoke low, her gaze to the floor in that deferential attitude he had seen in her before.

'And yet you were not surprised by my offer of a handshake, and Mr Hale tells me you arrived in the north on the very same day as did the Hales,' replied Mr Thornton, disapprovingly.

'Indeed, sir, but I have never lived in Margaret's south, either. My ways are foreign to all. I blunder along without expectation. That is, my only expectation is that I, myself, shall err, and invite the scorn of others. It cannot be provoked within me. Not where I have been. Not here in Milton.' She looked up at him then, a smile about her lips. 'You may be northerners, but you are not so savage as to be able to shock or offend me. That is my advantage, where Margaret has none.' He looked at her inquisitively. What a strange creature, thought he.