'But why? I have made many acquaintances; have met very interesting people. I am glad of it; it enables me to understand you better than I could before.' 'You are glad on that account?' 'Yes; indeed I am.' 'Dare I think you mean more than a civil phrase?' 'I mean quite simply all that my words imply. I have thought of you, though certainly without bitterness. No one's conversation in London interested me so much as yours.' Soothed with an exquisite joy, Godwin felt his eyes moisten. For a moment he was reconciled to all the world, and forgot the hostilities of a lifetime. 'And will it still be so, now, when you go back?' he asked, in a soft tone. 'I am sure it will.' 'Then it will be strange if I ever feel bitterly again.' Sidwell smiled. 'You could have said nothing that could please me more. Why should your life be troubled by these dark moods? I could understand it if you were still struggling with--with doubts, with all manner of uncertainties about your course'---- She hesitated, watching his face. 'You think I have chosen well?' said Godwin, meeting her look. Sidwell's eyes were at once averted. 'I hope,' she said, 'we may talk of that again very soon. You have told me much of yourself, but I have said little or nothing of my own--difficulties. It won't be long before we come back from London, and then'---- Once more their eyes met steadily. 'You think,' Godwin asked, 'that I am right in aiming at a life of retirement?' 'It is one of my doubts. Your influence would be useful anywhere; but most useful, surely, among people of active mind.' 'Perhaps I shan't be able to choose. Remember that I am seeking for a livelihood as well as for a sphere of usefulness.' His eyes fell as he spoke. Hitherto he had had no means of learning whether Sidwell would bring her husband a dowry substantial enough to be considered. Though he could not feel that she had betrothed herself to him, their talk was so nearly that of avowed lovers that perchance she would disclose whatever might help to put his mind at rest. The thought revived his painful self-consciousness; it was that of a schemer, yet would not the curse of poverty have suggested it to any man? 'Perhaps you won't be able to choose--at first,' Sidwell assented, thereby seeming to answer his unspoken question. 'But I am sure my father will use whatever influence he has.' Had he been seated near enough, he would have been tempted to the boldness of taking her hand. What more encouragement did he await? But the distance between them was enough to check his embarrassed impulses. He could not even call her 'Sidwell'; it would have been easier a few minutes ago, before she had begun to speak with such calm friendliness. Now, in spite of everything, he felt that to dare such a familiarity must needs call upon him the reproof of astonished eyes. 'You return to-morrow?' he asked, suddenly. 'I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful until we are home again.'