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ONE:And so I began to hear the tale. I was startled by its strong reminder of Charlotte's own life; but Charlotte answered my anxious glance with a brow so unfretted that I let the reading go on, and so made a cruel mistake. At every turning-point in the story its reader would have paused to talk it over, but Charlotte, with a steadily darkling brow, murmured each time "Go on," and I was silent, hoping that farther along there would be a better place to stop for good. Not so; the story's whirling flood swept us forward to a juncture ever drawing nearer and clearer, clearer and crueler, where a certain man would have to choose between the woman he loved and that breadth and fruitfulness of life to which his splendid gifts imperiously pointed him. Oh, you story-tellers! Every next page put the question plainer, drove the iron deeper: must a man, or even may a man, wed his love, when she stands between him and his truest career, a drawback and drag upon his finest service to his race and day? And, oh, me! who let my eye quail when Charlotte searched it, as though her own case had brought that question to me before ever we had seen this book. And, oh, that impenetrable woman reading! Her husband was in Lee's army, out of which, she boasted, she would steal him in a minute if she could. She was with us, now, only because, at whatever cost to others, she was going where no advancement of the enemy's lines could shut her off from him; and so stop reading a moment she must, to declare her choice for Love as against all the careers on earth, and to put that choice fairly to shame by the unworthiness of her pleadings in its defence. I intervened; I put her grovelling arguments aside and thrust better ones in, for the same choice, and then, in the fear that they were not enough, stumbled into special pleading and protested that the book itself had put the question unfairly.

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ONE:��Well, talking of waste of time,�� observed Lady Keeling indignantly, ��I can��t think of any worse waste than caring to know what Miss Propert said.��

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ONE:"'P'raps hunder tousand, p'raps million; nobody don't know.'

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ONE:PREFACE.But he knew there was another disposition of events possible. She had told him yesterday that she was not sure whether she would work there that morning or not. All the week her hours in the office had been long, and she might spend the morning out of doors. He knew already that she loved the downs, and indeed it was she who had told him of this particular path which he was now taking as a favourite ramble of hers. Her brother almost invariably walked with her, and Keeling was quite innocent of contriving an accidental meeting with her alone. But somewhere floating about in his heart was the imagined possibility that she might be alone, and that he would meet{232} her. He did not expect to meet her at all, but he knew he would love to see her, either with Charles or without, swinging along on this warm windy morning in the freedom of the country air and the great open spaces. They would suit her.... But primarily it was not she in any way that he sought: he wanted open space, and this wonderful sense of spring with its white bowlings of cloud along the blue, and its upthrusting of young grass. He wanted it untrammelled and wild, the tended daffodils and the buildings of birds so near house walls was not part of his mood.

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