‘You astonish me,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, more indignant at the downfall of this last cherished scheme than she had ever felt at any previous failure. ‘What more could you want in a wife? Beauty--cleverness--industry--good management.’ ‘Dante found only one Beatrice,’ said Cyril, gravely, ‘yet I have no doubt there were plenty of women in Florence who could sew on shirt buttons and make soup. I have found my Beatrice. I may never marry her, perhaps. But I am fixed for life. I shall never marry any one else.’ A new life returned to Bella’s limbs now. It was as if the blood that had just now flowed so sluggishly through her veins was suddenly changed to quicksilver. She rose to her feet again, and stood, white as a corpse, with her hands tightly clenched, her lips drawn together till they made only a thin line of pallid violet. The pretty Dresden china face was hardly recognisable. A sudden conviction had darted into her mind with Cyril’s utterance of that name--Beatrice. It was as if a flash of lightning had revealed things close at hand but wrapped in darkness till this moment. ‘I never was more surprised in my life--or disappointed,’ faltered Mrs. Dulcimer, quite overcome by this failure. ‘I am so fond of you, Cyril--and so fond of Bella, and I thought you would make such a nice couple--that it would be a delightful arrangement in every way.’ ‘My dear friend, there is a higher Power who rules these things. I am a believer in the old saying that marriages are made in heaven, and I have not much faith in the wisdom of earthly match-making.’ ‘But this was in every way so suitable,’ harped Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Bella is such a good girl--a model wife for a man who has to make his way in the world.’ ‘Heaven defend me from a model wife chosen for me by my friends,’ ejaculated Cyril. ‘And you have paid her so much attention--you have been so warmly interested in her parish work.’ ‘Not more than I should be in any good work done by any good woman. I trust,’ pursued Cyril with a sudden look of alarm, ‘that I have done nothing to mislead Miss Scratchell on this subject. I should hate myself if I thought it were possible. I can confidently say that I have never uttered a word that could be misunderstood by the most romantic young lady. Our conversation has always been perfectly matter of fact--about other people--never about ourselves. I would as soon take to writing sonnets as indulge in the sentimental twaddle some curates cultivate.’