them to act out of an
equally blind opposition to its canons. One could never be entirely
independent. In her confusion, she longed to turn to some clear mind and
sound conscience, not so much for advice, as in order to test the effect
upon such a mind and conscience of the whole situation.

Professor Fortescue was the only person upon whose judgment and feeling
she could absolutely rely. What would he think of her? His impression
would be the best possible guide, for no one opposed more strongly than
he did the vulgar notion of proprietary rights between husband and wife,
no one asserted more absolutely the independence of the individual. Yet
Hadria could not imagine that he would be anything but profoundly sorry,
if he knew the recklessness of her feeling, and the nature of her
sentiment for Professor Theobald. But then he did not know how she
stood; he did not know that the blue hopeful distance of life had
disappeared; that even the middle-distance had been cut off, and that
the sticks and stones and details of a very speckly foreground now
confronted her immovably. She would like to learn how many women of her
temperament, placed in her position, would stop to enquire very closely
into the right and wrong of the matter, when for a moment, a little
avenue seemed on the point of opening, misty and blue, leading the eye
to hidden perilous distances.

And then Professor Theobald had, after all, many fine qualities. He was
complex, and he had faults like the rest of us; but the more one knew
him, the more one felt his kindness of heart (how good he was to little
Martha), his readiness to help others, his breadth of view and his
sympathy. These were not common qualities. He was a man whom one could
admire, despite certain traits that made one shrink a little, at times.
These moreover had disappeared of late. They were accidental rather than
intrinsic. It was a matter of daily observation that people catch
superficial modes of thought and speech, just as they catch accent, or
as women who have given no thought to the art of dress, sometimes
misrepresent themselves, by adopting, unmodified, whatever happens to be
in the fashion. Hadria had a wistful desire to be able to respect
Professor Theobald without reserve, to believe in him thoroughly, to
think him noble in calibre and fine in fibre. She had a vague idea that
emphatic statement would conduce to making all this true.

She had never met him alone since that day of