Maurice was no backward lover. He made his way to Lesley that very day, and found her in the library--not, as usual, bending over a book, but standing by the window, from which could be seen a piece of waste ground overgrown with grass and weeds, and shaded by some great plane and elm trees. There was nothing particularly fascinating in the outlook, which partook of the usual grimness of a London atmosphere; but the young green of the budding trees spoke, in spite of the blackness of their branches, of spring and spring's delight; and there was a brightness in the tints of the tangled grass which gave a restful satisfaction to the eye. Lesley was looking out upon this scene with a wistfulness which struck Maurice with some surprise. "You like this window?" he said, interrogatively, when they had shaken hands and exchanged a word or two of greeting. "Yes, it reminds me in some way of my old convent home; I don't know why it should; but there are trees and grass and greenness." "Ah, you love the country?" "Do not you?" "Yes, but there are better things in the world than even trees and grass." "Ah, yes," said Lesley, eagerly. Then, with a little smile, she added; as if quoting--"Souls of men." "I was thinking of their bodies," said the young doctor. "But that's as it should be. You think of the spiritual, I only of the material side. Both sides ought to be considered that is where men and women meet, I take it." "I suppose so," said Lesley, a little vaguely. "I'm afraid," Maurice went on, "that it will be a long time before I have a country house of my own: a place where there will be trees and green meadows and flowers, such as one loves and sighs for. I have often thought"--with a note of agitation in his voice--"how much easier it would be to ask any one to share my life if I had these good things to offer. My only chance has been to find someone who cares--as I care--for the souls and bodies of the men and women around us; who would not disdain to help me in my work." "Who _could_ disdain it?" asked Lesley, innocently indignant. "Do you mean"--turning suddenly upon her--"that you don't consider a hard working doctor's life something inexpressibly beneath you?" She drew back a little hurt, a little bit astonished. "Certainly not. Why should I?" "You are born to a life of luxury and self-indulgence." "My father is a journalist," said Lesley with a smile, in which amusement struggled with offence. "But your grandfather was an earl! It is possible," with a touch of raillery, "that you prefer earls to general practitioners." "Of the two, it is the doctor that leads the better life, in my opinion," said Lesley, rather hotly; but immediately cooling down, she added the remark--"My preferences have nothing much, however, to do with the matter." "Have they not? How little you know your own power!"