perfect intimacy with which
he treated her. But there was something which grated against her
feelings in this allusion by him to the other man who had loved her.
Of course she had told him the whole story. She had conceived it to
be her duty to do so. But then the thing should have been over. It
was necessary, perhaps, that he should tell her who was his opponent.
It was impossible that she should not know when the fight came. But
she did not like to hear him boast that he had beaten Arthur Fletcher
once, and that he would beat him again. By doing so he likened the
sweet fragrance of her love to the dirty turmoil of an electioneering
contest.

He did not understand,--how should he?--that though she had never
loved Arthur Fletcher, had never been able to bring herself to love
him when all her friends had wished it, her feelings to him were
nevertheless those of affectionate friendship;--that she regarded him
as being perfect in his way, a thorough gentleman, a man who would
not for worlds tell a lie, as most generous among the generous, most
noble among the noble. When the other Whartons had thrown her off, he
had not been cold to her. That very day, as soon as her husband had
left her, she looked again at that little note. "I am as I always
have been!" And she remembered that farewell down by the banks of the
Wye. "You will always have one,--one besides him,--who will love you
best in the world." They were dangerous words for her to remember;
but in recalling them to her memory she had often assured herself
that they should not be dangerous to her. She was too sure of her own
heart to be afraid of danger. She had loved the one man and had not
loved the other;--but yet, now, when her husband talked of beating
this man again, she could not but remember the words.

She did not think,--or rather had not thought,--that Arthur Fletcher
would willingly stand against her husband. It had occurred to her at
once that he must first have become a candidate without knowing who
would be his opponent. But Ferdinand had assured her as a matter of
fact that Fletcher had known all about it. "I suppose in politics
men are different," she said to herself. Her husband had evidently
supposed that Arthur Fletcher had proposed himself as a candidate
for Silverbridge, with the express object of doing an injury to
the man who had carried off his love. And she repeated to herself
her husband's words, "He is doing it on purpose." She did not lik