he alley and simulated astonishment at the appearance of Emilia, as he
neared her. They shook hands and talked, while Madame zealously eyed any
chance person promenading the neighbourhood. She wrote for instructions
concerning this gentleman calling himself Sir Purcell Barrett, and
receiving them, she permitted Emilia to invite him to their house. "He
is an Englishman under a rope, ready for heaven," Madame described him
to her husband, who, though more at heart with Englishmen, could not but
admit that this one wore a look that appeared as a prognostication of
sadness.

Sir Purcell informed Emilia of his accession to title; and in reply to
her "Are you not glad?" smiled and said that a mockery could scarcely
make him glad; indicating nevertheless how feeble the note of poverty
was in his grand scale of sorrow. He came to the house and met them in
the gardens frequently. With some perversity he would analyze to herself
Emilia's spirit of hope, partly perhaps for the sake of probing to what
sort of thing it might be in its nature and defences; and, as against an
accomplished disputant she made but a poor battle, he injured what was
precious to her without himself gaining any good whatever.

"Why, what do you look forward to?" she said wondering, at the end of
one of their arguments, as he courteously termed this play of logical
foils with a baby.

"Death," answered the grave gentleman, striding on.

Emilia pitied him, thinking: "I might feel as he does, if I had not my
voice." Seeing that calamity very remote, she added: "I should!"

She knew of his position toward Cornelia: that is, she knew as much
as he did: for the want of a woman's heart over which to simmer
his troubles was urgent within him and Emilia's, though it lacked
experience, was a woman's regarding love. And moreover, she did not
weep, but practically suggested his favourable chances, which it was a
sad satisfaction to him to prove baseless, and to knock utterly over.
The grief in which the soul of a human creature is persistently seeking
(since it cannot be thrown off) to clothe itself comfortably, finds in
tears an irritating expression of sympathy. Hints of a brighter future
are its nourishment. Such embryos are not tenacious of existence, and
when destroyed they are succulent food for a space to the moody grief I
am describing.

The melancholy gentleman did Emilia this good, that, never appearing to
imagine others to know misery save himself, he