“Of course, Richard, no one can accomplish the impossible. Love has wings of fire, sir, it does not crawl like a spider in a web. And supposing now that you hesitated about adoring the same china cat, and that a great, red-faced bully stood over you with a whip, and swore he’d thrash you into admiring the monstrosity, what would you do then, Richard, eh?—what would you do then?” “Rebel, I suppose,” confessed the catechumen, with a frown. Though sitting as a disciple at his aunt’s feet, Jeffray had no great difficulty in amusing himself reflectively in the village. He walked on the Pantiles, watched the little comedies of life, listened to the music, dined at the various inns, and modestly refused the ogling invitations of sundry damsels in gay gowns and gaudy hats. Twice he attended at the Assembly Rooms with the Lady Letitia, and was not a little amused to find that the old lady had already discovered a rich and pretty rival to outshine Miss Jilian. Jeffray’s pulses remained unstirred by this new nereid. He danced with her twice, found her amiable and commonplace, and laughed with modest incredulity when the dowager rallied him on his chances. A young man in love might vote Dame Venus herself a very prosaic and ordinary person. Jeffray’s favorite haunt was a rock on the Common, where he could bask in the sun, and look into the blue distance towards Pevensel. Bess was in his thoughts always; in truth, she was thought itself, the very blood within his brain. He rehearsed her every pose, gesture, and expression, the simple and half-tender words that she had spoken to him, the way her eyes grew full of light when they met his. He remembered her bathing at Holy Cross, a white pillar of loveliness glimmering in the sun. He remembered her at Thorney Chapel, fierce, miserable, and ashamed. Sweetest of all were the memories of the night when she had bent over him as he lay in bed, and the day when he had met her in the larch-wood and she had poured out all her despair into his ears. What wonder that Miss Hardacre’s influence grew less and less, and that mere airy and fragile sentiments weighed like gossamer against the gold of love. Time and the Lady Letitia appeared to be clearing the metaphysical fog from Jeffray’s brain. The dark melted, the noon sun shone. True, he could not marry Bess, but his love for her should save him from perjuring himself by an alliance with Jilian. The truth was as plain as an Egyptian obelisk against the desert sky. Why should he shut his eyes and wander on, hating himself, and hating Jilian. What—and did he not pity her? Yes, in a vague and passive way, remembering ever the Lady Letitia’s cry of “money,” and Mr. Lancelot’s insolent face.