the light of an attempt to gain possession. The girl, at least, regarded
him as firmly anchored to his Leonora. She had not the slightest inkling
of any infidelities. He had always spoken to her of his wife in terms of
reverence and deep affection. He had given her the idea that he regarded
Leonora as absolutely impeccable and as absolutely satisfying. Their
union had appeared to her to be one of those blessed things that are
spoken of and contemplated with reverence by her church.

So that, when he spoke of her as being the person he cared most for in
the world, she naturally thought that he meant to except Leonora and
she was just glad. It was like a father saying that he approved of a
marriageable daughter... And Edward, when he realized what he was doing,
curbed his tongue at once. She was just glad and she went on being just
glad.

I suppose that that was the most monstrously wicked thing that Edward
Ashburnham ever did in his life. And yet I am so near to all these
people that I cannot think any of them wicked. It is impossible of me
to think of Edward Ashburnham as anything but straight, upright and
honourable. That, I mean, is, in spite of everything, my permanent view
of him. I try at times by dwelling on some of the things that he did
to push that image of him away, as you might try to push aside a large
pendulum. But it always comes back--the memory of his innumerable acts
of kindness, of his efficiency, of his unspiteful tongue. He was such a
fine fellow.

So I feel myself forced to attempt to excuse him in this as in so many
other things. It is, I have no doubt, a most monstrous thing to attempt
to corrupt a young girl just out of a convent. But I think Edward had
no idea at all of corrupting her. I believe that he simply loved her.
He said that that was the way of it and I, at least, believe him and I
believe too that she was the only woman he ever really loved. He said
that that was so; and he did enough to prove it. And Leonora said that
it was so and Leonora knew him to the bottom of his heart.

I have come to be very much of a cynic in these matters; I mean that it
is impossible to believe in the permanence of man's or woman's love. Or,
at any rate, it is impossible to believe in the permanence of any early
passion. As I see it, at least, with regard to man, a love affair, a
love for any definite woman--is something in the nature of a widening
of the experience. With each new woman that a man is a