s put herself in the supposititious woman's place, and she says, 'He
ought to tell her.' She says it earnestly, vehemently. That means that
if she were the woman, she would wish to be told. She will despise the
conventional barriers--she will be touched, she will be moved. 'No woman
could be proof against such a compliment.' Go to her to-morrow, and tell
her--and all will be well."

At these moments he would look up towards the castle, and picture
the morrow's consummation; and his heart would have a convulsion.
Imagination flew on the wings of his desire. She stood before him in all
her sumptuous womanhood, tender and strong and glowing. As he spoke, her
eyes lightened, her eyes burned, the blood came and went in her cheeks;
her lips parted. Then she whispered something; and his heart leapt
terribly; and he called her name--"Beatrice! Beatrice!" Her name
expressed the inexpressible--the adoring passion, the wild hunger and
wild triumph of his soul. But now she was moving towards him--she was
holding out her hands. He caught her in his arms--he held her yielding
body in his arms. And his heart leapt terribly, terribly. And he
wondered how he could endure, how he could live through, the hateful
hours that must elapse before tomorrow would be to-day.

But "hearts, after leaps, ache." Presently the whirl would begin again;
and then, by and by, in another lull, a contrary answer would seem
equally plain.

"Tell her, indeed? My dear man, are you mad? She would simply be amazed,
struck dumb, by your presumption. I can see from here her incredulity--I
can see the scorn with which she would wither you. It has never dimly
occurred to her as conceivable that you would venture to be in love with
her, that you would dare to lift your eyes to her--you who are nothing,
to her who is all. Yes--nothing, nobody. In her view, you are just a
harmless nobody, whose society she tolerates for kindness' sake--and
faute de mieux. It is precisely because she deems you a nobody--because
she is profoundly conscious of the gulf that separates you from
her--that she can condescend to be amiably familiar. If you were of a
rank even remotely approximating to her own, she would be a thousand
times more circumspect. Remember--she does not dream that you are Felix
Wildmay. He is a mere name to her; and his story is an amusing little
romance, perfectly external to herself, which she discusses with
entirely impersonal interest. Tell her by all means, if