it was the only thing that could make a second, a kind of serious sweet successor, to the love that was never to come again; but it was not that love--certainly not in his heart--so far as he could make out, not in hers either; but who could tell? Weak man! he would rather have preferred that she should have felt differently, and that it should have been his duty to marry for her sake. His life had settled down into all its old lines since Mr. Meredith’s death. He had his business about the societies--his meetings--his lectures to arrange--sometimes his articles to write. Now and then he dined out in the best and most learned of company. He was pointed out to the ignorant when he went into society as a distinguished person. He was in the front of the age, knowing a great deal more than most people knew, doing things that few people could do. His mornings were spent in these refined and dignified occupations; and when he dined out with his remarkable friends, or when he dined at home with only his silent little girl to keep him company, as regularly as the clock struck he knocked at the next door, and had his hour of gentle talk, of mutual confidence. They knew all about each other, these two; each could understand all the allusions the other made--all the surrounding incidents in the other’s life. They talked as man and wife do, yet with a little element of unconvention, of independence, of freshness in the intercourse, which made it more piquant than that between man and wife. What could be more agreeable, more desirable, more pleasant? But to break off all this delightful ease of intercourse by some kind of antiquary courtship, by the fuss of marriage, by fictitious honeymooning, and disturbance of all their formed and regular habits of life,--what nonsense it would be--and all for the sake of their friends, not of themselves! But if _she_ should wish it, of course that would give altogether another character to the affair.