ut there is nothing
unexpected about her; in five minutes you get to know her like a book."

"A book you have not read," cried Elizabeth with spirit.

Edmonson laughed. "Nobody would venture to predict your next acts or
words," he said; "he would be a bold man that tried."

"No," she answered with sadness in her gravity. "I never know them
myself. I have none of that poise which it is worth such a struggle to
gain. That is the reason why--." She stopped, perhaps through
consciousness that the conversation was getting toward egotism; perhaps
because she did not want to give confidence where it was better that she
should not.

"That is why you are so irresistible," Edmonson longed to finish; he
even framed his lips for the words, but a glance at Elizabeth checked
them. He wondered why, as he felt that a few months ago he would have
spoken them unhesitatingly. It could not be because she was possibly
Archdale's wife, for to believe her not that would please her better
than anything else. Therefore, though he feared it, and had referred to
it, he would have been glad to have denied it at the next moment. He
would even have been glad to believe that he was restrained wholly
by a question of how she would view this speech in the light of the
possibility. But he knew it was something more. He had seen the change
in Elizabeth, and in smothered wrath had perceived that this growth
which made her every day more interesting seemed to be in some way
withdrawing her from him. He struggled against allowing this dim feeling
to become a perception. For she might be free; then she should become
his wife: she might be already bound; in that case,--again the terrible
shadow darkened his face for an instant. Then he recollected himself,
and his eyes, seeking a visible object, rested on her face a little sad
with its dwelling upon her unfinished sentence which would have spoken
of her mistakes. A flash of perception revealed the truth to him; he saw
the gulf that yawned between his nature and hers, and, almost cursing
her for being so above him, there came to him a strange longing to feel
some touch upon him which would give his face the calmness that under
its pathos he read upon hers. It was no determination to struggle to a
higher plane, no desire for it, but only the old cry for some one to be
sent to cool the tip of his tongue because the flame tormented him. It
was not, however, an appreciable lapse of time before he again felt his