tenderness still lived in him? And the strange
thing was, that she interrogated herself on these points not at all
like a coldly scheming woman, who aims at something that is to be won,
if at all, by the subtlest practising on another's emotions, whilst she
remains unaffected. Rather like a woman who loves passionately, whose
ardour and jealous dread wax moment by moment.

For what was she scheming? For food, clothing, assured comfort during
her life? Twenty-four hours ago Clara would most likely have believed
that she had indeed fallen to this; but the meeting with Sidney
enlightened her. Least of all women could _she_ live by bread alone;
there was the hunger of her brain, the hunger of her heart. I spoke
once, you remember, of her 'defect of tenderness;' the fault remained,
but her heart was no longer so sterile of the tender emotions as when
revolt and ambition absorbed all her energies. She had begun to feel
gently towards her father; it was an intimation of the need which would
presently bring all the forces of her nature into play. She dreaded a
life of drudgery; she dreaded humiliation among her inferiors; but that
which she feared most of all was the barrenness of a lot into which
would enter none of the passionate joys of existence. Speak to Clara of
renunciation, of saintly glories, of the stony way of perfectness, and
you addressed her in an unknown tongue; nothing in her responded to
these ideas. Hopelessly defeated in the one way of aspiration which
promised a large life, her being, rebellious against the martyrdom it
had suffered, went forth eagerly towards the only happiness which was
any longer attainable. Her beauty was a dead thing; never by that means
could she command homage. But there is love, ay, and passionate love,
which can be independent of mere charm of face. In one man only could
she hope to inspire it; successful in that, she would taste victory,
and even in this fallen estate could make for herself a dominion.

In these few hours she so wrought upon her imagination as to believe
that the one love of her life had declared itself. She revived every
memory she possibly could of those years on the far side of the gulf,
and convinced herself that even then she had loved Sidney. Other love
of a certainty she had not known. In standing face to face with him
after so long an interval, she recognised the qualities which used to
impress her, and appraised them as formerly she could not. His features