etting," thought Grandcourt; "the next time I beckon she
will come down."

It seemed to him likely that this final beckoning might happen the very
next day, when there was to be a picnic archery meeting in Cardell
Chase, according to the plan projected on the evening of the ball.

Even in Gwendolen's mind that result was one of two likelihoods that
presented themselves alternately, one of two decisions toward which she
was being precipitated, as if they were two sides of a boundary-line,
and she did not know on which she should fall. This subjection to a
possible self, a self not to be absolutely predicted about, caused her
some astonishment and terror; her favorite key of life--doing as she
liked--seemed to fail her, and she could not foresee what at a given
moment she might like to do. The prospect of marrying Grandcourt really
seemed more attractive to her than she had believed beforehand that any
marriage could be: the dignities, the luxuries, the power of doing a
great deal of what she liked to do, which had now come close to her,
and within her choice to secure or to lose, took hold of her nature as
if it had been the strong odor of what she had only imagined and longed
for before. And Grandcourt himself? He seemed as little of a flaw in
his fortunes as a lover and husband could possibly be. Gwendolen wished
to mount the chariot and drive the plunging horses herself, with a
spouse by her side who would fold his arms and give her his countenance
without looking ridiculous. Certainly, with all her perspicacity, and
all the reading which seemed to her mamma dangerously instructive, her
judgment was consciously a little at fault before Grandcourt. He was
adorably quiet and free from absurdities--he would be a husband to suit
with the best appearance a woman could make. But what else was he? He
had been everywhere, and seen everything. _That_ was desirable, and
especially gratifying as a preamble to his supreme preference for
Gwendolen Harleth. He did not appear to enjoy anything much. That was
not necessary: and the less he had of particular tastes, or desires,
the more freedom his wife was likely to have in following hers.
Gwendolen conceived that after marriage she would most probably be able
to manage him thoroughly.

How was it that he caused her unusual constraint now?--that she was
less daring and playful in her talk with him than with any other
admirer she had known? That absence of demonstrativeness which sh