at he had done it, and that the Harden library
was his, was Lucia's. It only remained to tell her, and to hand it
over to her. He had long ago provided for this difficult affair. He
wrote, as he had planned to write, with a judicious hardness, brevity
and restraint. He told her that he desired to see her on some business
connected with the Harden library, in which he was endeavouring to
carry out as far as possible his father's last wishes. He asked to be
allowed to call on her some afternoon in the following week. He
thanked her for her letter without further reference, and he
remained--"sincerely"? No, "faithfully" hers.

He told Maddox that he thought of going down to Devonshire to recruit.

CHAPTER LXXIV

Lucia was suffering from the disagreeable strain of a divided mind. To
begin with she was not altogether pleased with Mr. Rickman. He had
taken no notice of the friendly little letter she had written about
the Elegy, her evident intention being to give him pleasure. She had
written it on impulse, carried away by her ardent admiration. That was
another of those passionate indiscreet things, which were followed by
torments of her pride. And the torments had followed. His two months'
silence had reproved her ardour, had intimated to her that he was in
no mood to enter in at the door which she had closed to him three
years ago. She took it that he had regarded her poor little olive
branch as an audacity. And now that he _had_ written there was not a
word about the subject of her letter. He had only written because
business compelled him, and his tone was not only cold, but positively
austere.

But, she reflected, business after all did not compel him to come down
and see her. Having reached this point she became aware that her heart
was beating most uncomfortably at the bare idea of seeing him. For the
first time this anticipation inspired her with anxiety and fear. Until
their last meeting in Tavistock Place there had been in all their
intercourse something intangible and rare, something that, though on
her part it had lacked the warmth of love, she had acknowledged to be
finer than any friendship. That beautiful intangible quality had
perished in the stress of their final meeting. And even if it came to
life again it could never be the same, or so she thought. She had
perceived how much its permanence had depended on external barriers,
on the social gulf, and on the dividing presence of another woman. She