"So
has mine," she said. There is no doubt about it now; she has pawned her
watch. What for? She lives here for nothing, and she has not had a new
dress since I have known her. Why does she want money?

Philip had not returned when I got home. Another mysterious journey to
London? No. After an absence of more than two hours, he came back.

Naturally enough, I asked what he had been about. He had been taking a
long walk. For his health's sake? No: to think. To think of what? Well,
I might be surprised to hear it, but his idle life was beginning
to weigh on his spirits; he wanted employment. Had he thought of an
employment? Not yet. Which way had he walked? Anyway: he had not noticed
where he went. These replies were all made in a tone that offended me.
Besides, I observed there was no dust on his boots (after a week of dry
weather), and his walk of two hours did not appear to have heated or
tired him. I took an opportunity of consulting Mrs. Tenbruggen.

She had anticipated that I should appeal to her opinion, as a woman of
the world.

I shall not set down in detail what she said. Some of it humiliated me;
and from some of it I recoiled. The expression of her opinion came to
this. In the absence of experience, a certain fervor of temperament
was essential to success in the art of fascinating men. Either my
temperament was deficient, or my intellect overpowered it. It was
natural that I should suppose myself to be as susceptible to the tender
passion as the most excitable woman living. Delusion, my Helena, amiable
delusion! Had I ever observed or had any friend told me that my pretty
hands were cold hands? I had beautiful eyes, expressive of vivacity,
of intelligence, of every feminine charm, except the one inviting
charm that finds favor in the eyes of a man. She then entered into
particulars, which I don't deny showed a true interest in helping me.
I was ungrateful, sulky, self-opinionated. Dating from that day's talk
with Mrs. Tenbruggen, my new friendship began to show signs of having
caught a chill. But I did my best to follow her instructions--and
failed.

It is perhaps true that my temperament is overpowered by my intellect.
Or it is possibly truer still that the fire in my heart, when it warms
to love, is a fire that burns low. My belief is that I surprised Philip
instead of charming him. He responded to my advances, but I felt that it
was not done in earnest, not spontaneously. Had I any right to complain?