That seems unreasonable; but mankind, fortunately, are not always
governed by reason, but by sentiment, and often by very tender
sentiment.

When Endymion, sitting in his little room, analysed his feelings, he
came to the conclusion that his sadness was occasioned by his having to
part from Imogene. It often requires an event in life, and an unexpected
one, to make us clearly aware of the existence of feelings which
have long influenced us. Never having been in a position in which the
possibility of uniting his fate to another could cross his mind for
a moment, he had been content with the good fortune which permitted a
large portion of his life to be passed in the society of a woman who,
unconsciously both to him and to herself, had fascinated him. The
graceful child who, four or five years ago, had first lit him to his
garret, without losing any of her rare and simple ingenuousness, had
developed into a beautiful and accomplished woman. There was a strong
resemblance between Imogene and her sister, but Imogene was a brunette.
Her countenance indicated far more intellect and character than that
of Sylvia. Her brow was delicately pencilled and finely arched, and her
large dark eyes gleamed with a softness and sweetness of expression,
which were irresistibly attractive, and seemed to indicate sympathy with
everything that was good and beautiful. Her features were not so regular
as her sister's; but when she smiled, her face was captivating.

Endymion had often listened, half with fondness and half with
scepticism, to Waldershare dilating, according to his wont, on the high
character and qualities of Imogene, whom he persisted in believing he
was preparing for a great career. "How it will come about I cannot say,"
he would remark; "but it will come. If my legitimate sovereign were on
the throne, and I in the possession of my estates, which were graciously
presented by the usurper to the sausage-makers, or some other choice
middle-class corporation, I would marry her myself. But that is
impossible. That would only be asking her to share my ruin. I want her
to live in palaces, and perhaps, in my decline of life, make me her
librarian, like Casanova. I should be content to dine in her hall
every day beneath the salt, and see her enter with her state, amid the
flourish of trumpets." And now, strange to say, Endymion was speculating
on the fate of Imogene, and, as he thought, in a more practical spirit.
Six hundred a year, h