rfection in politics, in philanthropy, in social reform, and the
like,--something by devoting himself to which he could make his life
a joy to himself. Then this girl had come across him, and there had
suddenly sprung up within him a love so strong that all these other
things faded into littlenesses. They should not be discarded. Work
would be wanted for his life, and for hers. But here he had found
the true salt by which all his work would be vivified and preserved
and made holy and happy and glorious. There had come a something
to him that was all that he wanted it to be. And now the something
was fading from him,--was already all but gone. In such a state how
should he tame the selfishness of self? He abandoned the attempt, and
told himself that difficulties had been prepared for him greater than
any of which he had dreamed when he had hoped that that taming might
be within his power. He could not even spare her in his selfishness.
He declared to himself that it was so, and almost owned that it would
be better that he should not go to her.

"Yes," she said, when he sat down beside her on her sofa, at an open
window looking out on the little bay, "put your hand on mine, dear,
and leave it there. To have you with me, to feel the little breeze,
and to see you and to touch you is absolute happiness."

"Why did you so often tell me not to come?"

"Ah, why? But I know why it was, my lord." There was something half
of tenderness, half pleasantry in the mode of address, and now he had
ceased to rebel against it.

"Why should I not come if it be a joy to you?"

"You must not be angry now."

"Certainly not angry."

"We have got through all that,--you and I have for ourselves;--but
there is a sort of unseemliness in your coming down here to see a
poor Quaker's daughter."

"Marion!"

"But there is. We had got through all that in Paradise Row. Paradise
Row had become used to you, and I could bear it. But here-- They will
all be sure to know who you are."

"Who cares?"

"That Marion Fay should have a lover would of itself make a stir in
this little place;--but that she should have a lord for her lover!
One doesn't want to be looked at as a miracle."

"The follies of others should not ruffle you and me."

"That's very well, dear;--but what if one is ruffled? But I won't be
ruffled, and you shall come. When I thought that I should go again
to our own house, then I thought we might perhaps dispense with the
ruffling