, but one Aphrodite
with a Janus face. "I only understand that you must try to forget her."

"I will not try."

"Promise me just this, then--not to do anything crooked."

"I'm straight. No boasting, but I couldn't do a crooked thing--No, not
if I tried."

And so appallingly straight was he in after years, that Mr. Failing
wished that he had phrased the promise differently.

Robert simply waited. He told himself that it was hopeless; but
something deeper than himself declared that there was hope. He gave up
drink, and kept himself in all ways clean, for he wanted to be worthy
of her when the time came. Women seemed fond of him, and caused him to
reflect with pleasure, "They do run after me. There must be something in
me. Good. I'd be done for if there wasn't." For six years he turned up
the earth of Wiltshire, and read books for the sake of his mind, and
talked to gentlemen for the sake of their patois, and each year he rode
to Cadover to take off his hat to Mrs. Elliot, and, perhaps, to speak
to her about the crops. Mr. Failing was generally present, and it struck
neither man that those dull little visits were so many words out of
which a lonely woman might build sentences. Then Robert went to London
on business. He chanced to see Mr. Elliot with a strange lady. The time
had come.

He became diplomatic, and called at Mr. Elliot's rooms to find things
out. For if Mrs. Elliot was happier than he could ever make her, he
would withdraw, and love her in renunciation. But if he could make her
happier, he would love her in fulfilment. Mr. Elliot admitted him as a
friend of his brother-in-law's, and felt very broad-minded as he did
so. Robert, however, was a success. The youngish men there found him
interesting, and liked to shock him with tales of naughty London and
naughtier Paris. They spoke of "experience" and "sensations" and "seeing
life," and when a smile ploughed over his face, concluded that his
prudery was vanquished. He saw that they were much less vicious than
they supposed: one boy had obviously read his sensations in a book. But
he could pardon vice. What he could not pardon was triviality, and he
hoped that no decent woman could pardon it either. There grew up in him
a cold, steady anger against these silly people who thought it advanced
to be shocking, and who described, as something particularly choice and
educational, things that he had understood and fought against for years.
He inquired after Mrs. Ell