urse, that it was
inseparable from her being, from her womanhood. Could one attribute to
Emily, even after the briefest acquaintance, a thought, an instinct,
which conflicted with the ideal of womanly purity? Was not her
loveliness of the soul? Moreover, she was intellectual beyond ordinary
women; for Wilfrid that must have been a rich source of attraction.
Scarcely less than the image of Wilfrid himself was that of Emily a
haunting presence in Beatrice's life. Recently she had spoken of her
both with Mrs. Birks and Mrs. Baxendale; it cost her something to do so,
but both of these had known Emily with intimacy, and might perhaps tell
her more than she herself remembered or could divine. Mrs. Birks was
disposed to treat Emily with little seriousness.

'You make the strangest mistake,' she said, 'if you think that was
anything but a boy's folly. To be sure the folly got very near the point
of madness--that was because opposition came in its way. Wilfrid has
for years thought as little of her as of the man in the moon's wife--if
he has one. You are surely not troubling yourself--what?'

Beatrice had thereupon retired into herself.

'You misunderstand me,' she said, rather coldly. 'It was only a
recollection of something that had seemed strange to me at the time.'

Mrs. Baxendale held another tone, but even she was not altogether
sincere--naturally it was impossible to be so. To begin with, she gave
Beatrice to understand, even as she had Wilfrid, that she had now for
some time lost sight of Emily, and, consequently, that the latter was
less actually interesting to her than was in fact the case. With her
aunt Beatrice could be more unreserved; she began by plainly asking
whether Mrs. Baxendale thought Wilfrid's regret had been of long
endurance--a woman in Beatrice's position clearly could not, in talking
to another, even suppose the case that the regret still endured. Her
aunt honestly replied that she believed he had suffered long and
severely.

'But,' she added, with characteristic tact, 'I did not need this
instance, my dear, to prove to me that a first love may be only a
preparation for that which is to last through life. I could tell you
stories--but I haven't my grandmother's cap on at present.'

(Mrs. Baxendale was, in truth, a grandmother by this time, and professed
to appreciate the authority she derived from the circumstance.)

That had drawn Beatrice out.

'She was strong-minded?'

'Or very weak, I re