uld not permit herself to think, and, pale with
suffering, she would check the painful questions which rose already
answered. Her affection for Rennes was one of those serious passions
which sometimes take root in an unsentimental nature, and derive a
strength from philosophy which romantic considerations, pleasant as they
are, can never bestow. Romance will add a magical delight to the
pleasures of existence, but for the burden of the day one needs a
sobriety of thought which would ring singularly flat in a love-lyric,
which is certainly opposed to those emotions which produce what is
commonly regarded as interesting behaviour. Agnes had not been drawn to
Rennes at first sight, but rather by degrees and against her better
judgment. She had found him unstable and affected; on the other hand,
she admired his fine figure, his talent, his conversation, and the fire
in his brilliant eyes. She told herself that she was deeply anxious
about his soul, but, in a crowd, she watched for his broad shoulders and
his handsome face. Such was her friendship, and she had known him for
two years. Her first season had been a startling success. She had the
misery of rejecting several suitors of whom her father fully
approved--one was an Archdeacon. She had been drawn more than kindly
toward a consumptive violinist whom she had met at a Saturday
entertainment for the poor at Kensal Green. Not a single word of love
ever passed between them. He called once or twice at her aunt's house in
Chester Square, and they had played together some of Corelli's sonatas.
Her aunt carried her away to Brighton, and no more was heard of the
young violinist till a rumour reached them that he was drinking himself
to death at St. Moritz. Agnes said many prayers for him. At last a
second rumour reached her that the first was wholly incorrect. He had
married a very nice girl with a lot of money and was building a villa at
Cannes. Agnes told herself that she was thankful to hear it. The next
year she became engaged to a young Member of Parliament with really fine
prospects. She was not in love, but she liked him better than all her
friends. She felt serene, and at last useful. Then a story reached her
about another woman, and yet another woman before that one. The story
was true and not at all pretty. The Bishop was obliged to support his
daughter in her refusal to regard matters in what her betrothed
described as a sane and reasonable manner. He had sinned and he