that he would keep the whole
thing a profound secret, especially from you; and so of course he
declined, for he felt that you must be the proper person to tell it to,
though we do not know why. He reasoned with her, but he could make
nothing of her."

"Perhaps she wants to bring it on again," said John. "What a pity he
returned the letters before Joe had sailed!"

"No, it was the right thing to do. And, John, if love is really the
sacred, strong, immortal passion made out by all the poets and
novelists, I cannot see, somehow, that putty ought to stand in its
light. It ought to have a soul above putty."

"With all my heart," said John; "but you see in this case it hadn't."

"It would be an _astonishingly_ disadvantageous thing for our family if
she ran away and married him just now, when Valentine has been making
himself so ridiculous. But there is no doubt we could bring it on again,
and have it done if we chose," said Emily.

John looked at her with surprise.

"But then," she continued, "I should say that the man ought to be
thought of as well as herself, and she might prove a thoroughly
unsuitable, foolish wife, who would soon tire of him. SHE might be very
miserable also. She would not have half the chance of happiness that an
ordinary marriage gives. And, again, Santo Domingo is notoriously
unhealthy. She might die, and if we had caused the marriage, we should
feel that."

"Are you addressing this remarkable speech to yourself or to _the
chair_?" said John, laughing.

"To the chair. But, if I am the meeting, don't propose as a resolution
that this meeting is _tete montee_. John, you used to say of me before I
married that I was troubled with intuitions."

"I remember that I did."

"You meant that I sometimes saw consequences very clearly, and felt that
the only way to be at peace was to do the right thing, having taken some
real trouble to find out what it was."

"I was not aware that I meant that. But proceed."

"When Laura was here in the autumn she often talked to Liz about little
Peter Melcombe's health, and said she believed that his illness at
Venice had very much shaken his constitution. His mother, she said,
never would allow that there had been much the matter with him, though
she had felt frightened at the time. It was the heat, Laura thought,
that had been too much for him. Now, you know if that poor little fellow
were to die, Valentine, who has nothing to live on, and nothing to do,
is hi