"The substitute might not be just the same. For instance, he might not
have so scrupulous a conscience."

"You mean he might not be so eager to back out of his engagements."

"I mean what I said. Your position seems to be a little difficult."

"I wish to goodness, Miss Harden, I could explain it."

"I don't suggest that you should explain it. It doesn't seem to be so
very clear to yourself."

"It isn't. I really _don't_ know what I ought to do."

"No more do I. But I can tell you what you ought to have done. You
ought to have made up your mind last night."

"Well, the fact is--last night--I hadn't very much mind left to make
up."

"No, I remember. You _were_ rather done up. I don't want to bind you
by last night, if it's at all unfair to you."

"It isn't in the least unfair to me. But I'm not sure that it mightn't
be very unfair to you; and, you see, I want to think it out."

"Very well, think it out, and let me know some time to-night. Will
that satisfy you?"

"It ought to."

And for the moment it did satisfy him. He felt that conscience, that
stern guardian of his conduct, was off duty for the day. He was free
(for the day) to abandon himself to the charm of Miss Harden's
society. The experience, he told himself, would be altogether new and
delightful.

New it undoubtedly was; but he remained a little uncertain as to the
delight; the immediate effect of Miss Harden's presence being an
intellectual disturbance amounting almost to aberration. It showed
itself, first of all, in a frightful exaltation of the consciousness
of self. To Mr. Rickman, striving to be noiseless, it seemed that the
sound of his boots, as he crossed the library, reverberated through
the immensity of space, while the creaking of his new braces
advertised in the most horrible manner his rising up and his sitting
down. Things were worse when he sat down; for then his breathing,
light but noticeably frequent, made him the unquiet centre of the
room. In the surrounding stillness the blowing of his nose became a
monstrous and appalling act. And no sooner was his attention
abstracted from his nose than it settled in his throat, producing a
series of spasmodic contractions which he imagined to be distinctly
audible. It was really as if his body had somehow detached itself, and
was rioting in a conspicuous and unseemly individuality of its own. He
wondered what Miss Harden thought of its behaviour.

This state of things was bad enough