trength within
beauty were really there in her apart from him. As if he had believed
that they lay in his esteem! No, indeed: they were her own; she could
bestow them where she pleased.

But he couldn't touch her--now: he would die sooner than touch her.
And he couldn't say anything to her: that would have been to throw up
the game. She should never pity him, and give him for pity what would
have become, in the very giving, negligible to herself. He knew
himself well: he could never ask for a thing. No! but could he get her
to ask for something? Ah, then she might find out whom she had
married! A man, he judged, of spendthrift generosity, a prodigal of
himself. Yes, that was how it must be, if to be at all. He kept his
eyes wide, and followed her every movement, with a longing to help
which was incessant, like toothache. At the same time he was careful
to keep himself quiet. Not a tone of voice must vary, not a daily
action betray him. That hand on the shoulder, now, when Urquhart was
last here. Too much. There must be no more of it, though he could
still feel the softness of her in the tips of his fingers. Thus he
braced himself.

He held good cards: but he didn't know how good.

CHAPTER XVI

AMARI ALIQUID

Lingen was exceedingly gratified by Lucy's letter. James had thought
the invitation should come from her, and, as the subject-matter was
distasteful to her, sooner than discuss it she had acquiesced. Few
pin-pricks had rankled as this one. She had never had any feeling but
toleration for Lingen; James had erected him as a foible; and that he
should use him now as a counter-irritant made her both sore and
disgustful. She wished to throw up the whole scheme, but was helpless,
because she could neither tell James, who would have chuckled, nor
Urquhart either. To have told Urquhart, whether she told him her
reason or left him to guess it, would have precipitated a confession
that her present position was untenable. In her heart she knew it, for
the heart knows what the mind stores; but she had not the courage to
summon it up, to table it, and declare, "This robe is outworn,
stretched at the seams, ragged at the edges. Away with it." Just now
she could not do it; and because she could not do it she was trapped.
James had her under his hand.

Therefore she wrote her, "Dear Francis," and had his grateful
acceptance, and his solemn elation, visible upon his best calling
face. "I can't tell you how happy you