had not since entertained any serious idea of marriage
in connection with Colonel Quaritch. The only person whom there seemed
to be the slightest probability of her marrying was Edward Cossey, and
the mere thought of this was enough to make the whole idea of
matrimony repugnant to her.

But this notwithstanding, day by day she found Harold Quaritch's
society more congenial. Herself by nature, and also to a certain
degree by education, a cultured woman, she rejoiced to find in him an
entirely kindred spirit. For beneath his somewhat rugged and
unpromising exterior, Harold Quaritch hid a vein of considerable
richness. Few of those who associated with him would have believed
that the man had a side to his nature which was almost poetic, or that
he was a ripe and finished scholar, and, what is more, not devoid of a
certain dry humour. Then he had travelled far and seen much of men and
manners, gathering up all sorts of quaint odds and ends of
information. But perhaps rather than these accomplishments it was the
man's transparent honesty and simple-mindedness, his love for what is
true and noble, and his contempt of what is mean and base, which,
unwittingly peeping out through his conversation, attracted her more
than all the rest. Ida was no more a young girl, to be caught by a
handsome face or dazzled by a superficial show of mind. She was a
thoughtful, ripened woman, quick to perceive, and with the rare talent
of judgment wherewith to weigh the proceeds of her perception. In
plain, middle-aged Colonel Quaritch she found a very perfect
gentleman, and valued him accordingly.

And so day grew into day through that lovely autumn-tide. Edward
Cossey was away in London, Quest had ceased from troubling, and
journeying together through the sweet shadows of companionship, by
slow but sure degrees they drew near to the sunlit plain of love. For
it is not common, indeed, it is so uncommon as to be almost
impossible, that a man and woman between whom there stands no natural
impediment can halt for very long in those shadowed ways. There is
throughout all nature an impulse that pushes ever onwards towards
completion, and from completion to fruition. Liking leads to sympathy,
sympathy points the path to love, and then love demands its own. This
is the order of affairs, and down its well-trodden road these two were
quickly travelling.

George the wily saw it, and winked his eye with solemn meaning. The
Squire also saw something of i