'No, Nicholas, I do not repent that,' she returned gently, though with firmness. 'But I think that you ought not to have got that licence without asking me first; and I also think that you ought to have known how it would be if you lived on here in your present position, and made no effort to better it. I can bear whatever comes, for social ruin is not personal ruin or even personal disgrace. But as a sensible, new-risen poet says, whom I have been reading this morning:- The world and its ways have a certain worth: And to press a point while these oppose Were simple policy. Better wait. As soon as you had got my promise, Nic, you should have gone away--yes--and made a name, and come back to claim me. That was my silly girlish dream about my hero.' 'Perhaps I can do as much yet! And would you have indeed liked better to live away from me for family reasons, than to run a risk in seeing me for affection's sake? O what a cold heart it has grown! If I had been a prince, and you a dairymaid, I'd have stood by you in the face of the world!' She shook her head. 'Ah--you don't know what society is--you don't know.' 'Perhaps not. Who was that strange gentleman of about seven-and-twenty I saw at Mr. Bellston's christening feast?' 'Oh--that was his nephew James. Now he is a man who has seen an unusual extent of the world for his age. He is a great traveller, you know.' 'Indeed.' 'In fact an explorer. He is very entertaining.' 'No doubt.' Nicholas received no shock of jealousy from her announcement. He knew her so well that he could see she was not in the least in love with Bellston. But he asked if Bellston were going to continue his explorations. 'Not if he settles in life. Otherwise he will, I suppose.' 'Perhaps I could be a great explorer, too, if I tried.' 'You could, I am sure.' They sat apart, and not together; each looking afar off at vague objects, and not in each other's eyes. Thus the sad autumn afternoon waned, while the waterfall hissed sarcastically of the inevitableness of the unpleasant. Very different this from the time when they had first met there. The nook was most picturesque; but it looked horridly common and stupid now. Their sentiment had set a colour hardly less visible than a material one on surrounding objects, as sentiment must where life is but thought. Nicholas was as devoted as ever to the fair Christine; but unhappily he too had moods and humours, and the division between them was not closed. She had no sooner got indoors and sat down to her work-table than her father entered the drawing-room. She handed him his newspaper; he took it without a word, went and stood on the hearthrug, and flung the paper on the floor. 'Christine, what's the meaning of this terrible story? I was just on my way to look at the register.' She looked at him without speech. 'You have married--Nicholas Long?' 'No, father.'