he either loved her, or
felt something towards her, not easily distinguishable from love. His
inferior she remained, but not in the sense he had formerly attributed
to the word. Her mind and heart excelled the idle conception he had
formed of them. But Nancy was not his wife, as the world understands
that relation; merely his mistress, and as a mistress he found her
charming, lovable. What she now hinted at, would shatter the situation.
Tarrant thought not of the peril to her material prospects; on that
score he was indifferent, save in so far as Mr Lord's will helped to
maintain their mutual independence. But he feared for his liberty, in
the first place, and in the second, abhorred the change that must come
over Nancy herself. Nancy a mother--he repelled the image, as though it
degraded her.

Delicacy, however, constrained him to a disguise of these emotions. He
recognised the human sentiments that should have weighed with him; like
a man of cultivated intelligence, he admitted their force, their beauty.
None the less, a syllable on Nancy's lips had arrested the current of
his feelings, and made him wish again that he had been either more or
less a man of honour down at Teignmouth.

'And yet,' he said to himself, 'could I have resisted an appeal for
marriage _now_? That comes of being so confoundedly humane. It's a
marvel that I didn't find myself married to some sheer demirep long
ago.'

Nancy was speaking.

'Will it make you love me less?'

'I have always refused to prophesy about love,' he answered, with forced
playfulness.

'But you wouldn't--you wouldn't?'

'We should find ourselves in a very awkward position.'

'I know,' said Nancy hurriedly. 'I can't see what would be done. But you
seem colder to me all at once, Lionel. Surely it oughtn't to--to turn
you away from me. Perhaps I am mistaken.'

This referred to the alarming possibility, and Tarrant caught at hope.
Yes, she might be mistaken; they wouldn't talk about it; he shook it
away.

'Let me fill my pipe again. Yes, you can do it for me. That reminds me
of a story Harvey Munden tells. A man he knew, a doctor, got married,
and there was nothing his wife wouldn't do for him. As he sat with her
one evening, smoking, a patient called him into the consulting-room. He
had only just lighted a fresh pipe, and laid it down regretfully. 'I'll
keep it in for you,' said his wife. And she did so, with dainty and
fearful puffs, at long intervals. But the doc