Strange, but true, precisely at that moment the passion for Mr. Cardew revived with more than its old intensity. Fresh from a deathbed, pondering over what she had learned or thought she had learned there--the very lesson which ought to have taught her to give up Mr. Cardew--she loved him more than ever, and was less than ever able to banish his image from her. She turned out of her direct road and took that which led past his house--swept that way as irresistibly as a mastless hull is swept by the tide. She knew that Mr. Cardew was in the habit of walking out in the afternoon, and she knew the path he usually took. She had not gone far before she met him. She explained what her errand had been, and added that she preferred the bypath because she was able to avoid the dusty Eastthorpe lane. "I do not know these Crowhursts," said Mr. Cardew; "they are Dissenters, I believe." The subject dropped, and Catharine had not another word to say about Phoebe. "You look fatigued and as if you were not very well." "Nothing particular; a little cough at times, but the doctor says it is of no consequence, if I only take care." "You have been up all night, and you are now going to walk back to Eastthorpe?" "Yes, the walk will refresh me." He did not ask her to go to his house. Catharine noticed the omission; hoped he would not--knew he would not. "Have you heard anything of your father's assistant, Mr. Catchpole?" "Yes, he likes that situation which you obtained for him so kindly." "Is he quite happy?" "Yes, I believe so." "I encountered Mr. Colston, junior, a few minutes ago. He was on his way to Eastthorpe. I am afraid I was rather rude to him, for, to tell you the truth, I did not want his society. He is not an interesting young man. Do you care anything for him?" "Nothing." "I should like to see the picture you have formed of the man for whom you would care. I do not remember"--speaking slowly and dreamily--"ever to have seen a woman who would frame a loftier ideal." He unconsciously came nearer to her; his arm moved into hers, and she did not resist. "What is the use of painting pictures when reality is unattainable?" "Unattainable! Yes, just what I imagined: you paint something unattainable to ordinary mortality. It is strange that most men and women, even those who more or less in all they do strive after perfection, seem to be satisfied with so little when it comes to love and marriage. The same sculptor, who unweariedly refines day after day to put in marble the image which haunts him, forms no such image of a woman whom he seeks unceasingly, or, if he does, he descends on one of the first twenty he meets and thinks he adores her. There is some strong thwarting power which prevents his search after the best, and it is as if nature had said that we should not pick and choose. But the consequences are tremendous. I honour you for your aspirations."