Nevil
Beauchamp had compelled her to quit her lofty station, pulled her low as
the littlest of women that throb and flush at one man's footstep: and
being well able to read the nature and aspirations of Captain Baskelett,
it was with the knowledge of her having been proposed to as heiress of a
great fortune that she chanced to hear of Nevil's resolve to have money.
If he did say it! And was anything likelier? was anything unlikelier? His
foreign love denied to him, why, now he devoted himself to money:
money--the last consideration of a man so single-mindedly generous as he!
But he must have money to pursue his contest! But would he forfeit the
truth in him for money for any purpose?

The debate on this question grew as incessant as the thought of him. Was
it not to be supposed that the madness of the pursuit of his political
chimaera might change his character?

She hoped he would not come to Mount Laurels, thinking she should esteem
him less if he did; knowing that her defence of him, on her own behalf,
against herself, depended now on an esteem lodged perhaps in her
wilfulness. Yet if he did not come, what an Arctic world!

He came on a November afternoon when the woods glowed, and no sun. The
day was narrowed in mist from earth to heaven: a moveless and possessing
mist. It left space overhead for one wreath of high cloud mixed with
touches of washed red upon moist blue, still as the mist, insensibly
passing into it. Wet webs crossed the grass, chill in the feeble light.
The last flowers of the garden bowed to decay. Dead leaves, red and brown
and spotted yellow, fell straight around the stems of trees, lying thick.
The glow was universal, and the chill.

Cecilia sat sketching the scene at a window of her study, on the level of
the drawing-room, and he stood by outside till she saw him. He greeted
her through the glass, then went round to the hall door, giving her time
to recover, if only her heart had been less shaken.

Their meeting was like the features of the day she set her brush to
picture: characteristic of a season rather than cheerless in tone, though
it breathed little cheer. Is there not a pleasure in contemplating that
which is characteristic? Her unfinished sketch recalled him after he had
gone: he lived in it, to startle her again, and bid her heart gallop and
her cheeks burn. The question occurred to her: May not one love, not
craving to be beloved? Such a love does not sap our pride, but supports