the knowledge of her having been proposed to as heiress of a
great fortune that she chanced to hear of Nevil's resolve to have money.
If he did say it! And was anything likelier? was anything unlikelier?
His foreign love denied to him, why, now he devoted himself to money:
money--the last consideration of a man so single-mindedly generous as
he! But he must have money to pursue his contest! But would he forfeit
the truth in him for money for any purpose?

The debate on this question grew as incessant as the thought of him. Was
it not to be supposed that the madness of the pursuit of his political
chimaera might change his character?

She hoped he would not come to Mount Laurels, thinking she should esteem
him less if he did; knowing that her defence of him, on her own behalf,
against herself, depended now on an esteem lodged perhaps in her
wilfulness. Yet if he did not come, what an Arctic world!

He came on a November afternoon when the woods glowed, and no sun. The
day was narrowed in mist from earth to heaven: a moveless and possessing
mist. It left space overhead for one wreath of high cloud mixed with
touches of washed red upon moist blue, still as the mist, insensibly
passing into it. Wet webs crossed the grass, chill in the feeble light.
The last flowers of the garden bowed to decay. Dead leaves, red and
brown and spotted yellow, fell straight around the stems of trees, lying
thick. The glow was universal, and the chill.

Cecilia sat sketching the scene at a window of her study, on the level
of the drawing-room, and he stood by outside till she saw him. He
greeted her through the glass, then went round to the hall door, giving
her time to recover, if only her heart had been less shaken.

Their meeting was like the features of the day she set her brush to
picture: characteristic of a season rather than cheerless in
tone, though it breathed little cheer. Is there not a pleasure in
contemplating that which is characteristic? Her unfinished sketch
recalled him after he had gone: he lived in it, to startle her again,
and bid her heart gallop and her cheeks burn. The question occurred to
her: May not one love, not craving to be beloved? Such a love does not
sap our pride, but supports it; increases rather than diminishes our
noble self-esteem. To attain such a love the martyrs writhed up to the
crown of saints. For a while Cecilia revelled in the thought that she
could love in this most saint-like manner. How they