olin--the thought was too monstrous even for the Austins; and indeed
it would seem as if that tide of reform which we may date from the days
of Mary Wollstonecraft had in some degree even receded; for though Miss
Austin was suffered to learn Greek, the accomplishment was kept secret
like a piece of guilt. But whether this stealth was caused by a backward
movement in public thought since the time of Edward Barron, or by the
change from enlightened Norwich to barbarian London, I have no means of
judging.

When Fleeming presented his letter he fell in love at first sight with
Mrs. Austin and the life and atmosphere of the house. There was in the
society of the Austins, outward, stoical conformers to the world,
something gravely suggestive of essential eccentricity, something
unpretentiously breathing of intellectual effort, that could not fail to
hit the fancy of this hot-brained boy. The unbroken enamel of courtesy,
the self-restraint, the dignified kindness of these married folk, had
besides a particular attraction for their visitor. He could not but
compare what he saw with what he knew of his mother and himself.
Whatever virtues Fleeming possessed, he could never count on being
civil; whatever brave, true-hearted qualities he was able to admire in
Mrs. Jenkin, mildness of demeanour was not one of them. And here he
found persons who were the equals of his mother and himself in intellect
and width of interest, and the equals of his father in mild urbanity of
disposition. Show Fleeming an active virtue, and he always loved it. He
went away from that house struck through with admiration, and vowing to
himself that his own married life should be upon that pattern, his wife
(whoever she might be) like Eliza Barron, himself such another husband
as Alfred Austin. What is more strange, he not only brought away, but
left behind him, golden opinions. He must have been--he was, I am
told--a trying lad; but there shone out of him such a light of innocent
candour, enthusiasm, intelligence, and appreciation, that to persons
already some way forward in years, and thus able to enjoy indulgently
the perennial comedy of youth, the sight of him was delightful. By a
pleasant coincidence, there was one person in the house whom he did not
appreciate, and who did not appreciate him: Annie Austin, his future
wife. His boyish vanity ruffled her; his appearance, never impressive,
was then, by reason of obtrusive boyishness, still less so; she fou