han he guessed. In the early days of their acquaintance
he had enjoyed talking with her about the subjects in which she was
interested. Such conversation generally brought him to that condition of
intellectual suspense which was peculiarly delightful to him, for though
she did not persuade him to accept her own points of view, she made him
feel more doubtful about his own, so far as any of them were fixed, and
doubt meant revery, musing, imaginative argument about questions that
might never be answered. But he and she had now advanced to another
stage. Unconsciously, all that side of his nature had fallen into
abeyance, and he thought only of positive things in the immediate
future. When he was with Cecilia, no matter how the conversation began,
it soon turned upon their plans for their married life; and he found it
so infinitely pleasant to talk of such matters that it did not occur to
him to ask whether she regarded them as equally interesting.

She did not; she saw the change in him, and regretted it. A woman who is
not really in love, generally likes a man less after he has fallen
hopelessly in love with her. It is true that she sometimes likes herself
the better for her new conquest, and there may be some compensation in
that; but there is something tiresome, if not repugnant to her, in the
placid, possessive complacency of a future husband, who seems to forget
that a woman has any intelligence except in matters concerning furniture
and the decoration of a house.

Cecilia was not capricious; she really liked Guido as much as ever, and
she would not even admit that he bored her when he came back again and
again to the same topics. She tried hard to look forward to the time
when all the former charm of their intercourse should return, and when,
besides being the best of friends, he would again be the most agreeable
of companions. It seemed very far off; and yet, in her heart, she hoped
that something might happen to hinder her marriage, or at least to put
it off another year.

Her life seemed very blank after the great struggle was ended, and in
the long summer mornings before Guido came to luncheon, she was
conscious of longing for something that should take the place of the old
dreams, something she could not understand, that awoke under the
listlessness which had come upon her. It was a sort of sadness, like a
regret for a loss that had not really been suffered, and yet was
present; it was a craving for sympathy