d not be a very watchful lover. He
had no petits soins. Few husbands have, it is true; nor is it necessary
for husbands in general. But Constance was not an ordinary woman; she
loved deeply, but she loved according to her nature--as a woman proud
and exacting must love. For Godolphin, her haughty step waxed timorous
and vigilant; she always sprang forward the first to meet him on his
return from his solitary ramblings, and he smiled upon her with his
wonted gentleness but not so gratefully, thought Constance, as he ought.
In truth, he had been too much accustomed to the eager love of Lucilla,
to feel greatly surprised at any proof of tenderness from Constance.
Thus, too proud to speak--to hint a complaint, Constance was
nevertheless perpetually wounded, and by degrees (although not loving
her husband less) she taught that love to be more concealed. Oh,
that accursed secretiveness in women, which makes them always belie
themselves!

Godolphin, too, was not without his disappointments. There was something
so bright, so purely intellectual about Constance's character, that at
times, when brought into constant intercourse with her, you longed for
some human weakness--some wild, warm error on which to repose. Dazzling
and fair as snow, like snow your eye ached to gaze upon her. She had,
during the years of her ungenial marriage, cultivated her mind to
the utmost; few women were so accomplished--it might be learned; her
conversation flowed for ever in the same bright, flowery, adorned
stream. There were times when Godolphin recollected how hard it is
to read a volume of that Gibbon who in a page is so delightful. Her
affection for him was intense, high, devoted; but it was wholly of the
same intellectual spiritualised order; it seemed to Godolphin to want
human warmth and fondness. In fact, there never was a woman who, both by
original nature and after habits, was so purely and abstractedly "mind"
as was Constance; there was not a single trait or taste in her
character that a sensualist could have sneered at. Her heart was wholly
Godolphin's; her mind was generous, sympathising, lofty; her person
unrivalled in the majesty of its loveliness; all these, too, were
Godolphin's, and yet the eternal something was wanting still.

"I have brought you your hat, Percy," said Constance; "you forget the
dews are falling fast, and your head is uncovered."

"Thank you," said Percy, gently; yet Constance thought the tone might
have been