ear the
self-reproach which followed. It was true, as she admitted, that there
was really nothing to regret except the unhappiness the discovery of her
action would bring to her family, but, of course, the chief effect of
this was that Guy became even more jealous of her sisters' influence.
The disaccord between him and them was making visible progress, and much
of love's joy was being swallowed up in the sadness this brought to her.
She wished now that she had said nothing about the rebuke she had earned
for that unfortunate afternoon in the Abbey. Margaret and Monica had
both tried hard ever since to atone for the part they played, and having
forgiven them and accepted the justice of their point of view, Pauline
was distressed that Guy should treat them now practically as avowed
enemies. She might have known that happiness such as hers could not
last, and she reproached herself for the many times she had triumphed in
the thought of the superiority of their love to any other she had
witnessed. She deserved this anxiety and this doubt as a punishment for
the way in which she had often scoffed at the dullness of other people
who were in love. Marriage, which at first had been only a delightful
dream the remoteness of which did not matter, was now appearing the only
remedy for the ills that were gathering round Guy and her. As soon as
she had set her heart upon this panacea she began to watch Guy's work
from the point of view of its subservience to that end. She was anxious
that he should work particularly hard, and she became very sensitive to
any implication of laziness in the casual opinion that Margaret or
Monica would sometimes express. Guy was obviously encouraged by the
interest she took, and for a while in the new preoccupation of working
together as it were for a common aim the strain of their restricted
converse was allayed.

One day early in December Guy announced that really he thought he had
now enough poems to make a volume, news which roused Pauline to the
greatest excitement and which on the same evening she triumphantly
announced to her family at dinner.

"My dears, his book is finished! And, Father, he has translated some
poems of that man--that Latin creature you gave him on his birthday."

"Propertius is difficult," said the Rector. "Very difficult."

"Oh, but I'm so glad he's difficult, because that will make it all the
more valuable if Guy ... or won't it? Oh, don't let me talk nonsense;
but real