He talked little and not brilliantly, but he knew how to make other people talk. By some subtle, fine essence in his own nature, he seemed to extract the best aroma from every other; and better than most conversation was it to look at his kindly, earnest, listening face, as, in the pauses of politeness, Christian did look more than once; and a thrill shot through her, the consciousness, dear to every woman, of being proud of her husband. Ay, whether she loved him, or not, she was certainly proud of him. In all good hearts, love's root is in goodness. Deeper than even love itself is that ideal sense of being satisfied--satisfied in all one's moral nature, in the craving of one's soul after what seems nearest perfection. And though in many cases poor human hearts are so weak, or strong--which is it?--that we cling to imperfectness, and love it simply because we love it with a sort of passionate pity, ever hoping to have its longings realized, still this kind of love is not _the_ love which exalts, strengthens, glorifies. Sooner or later it must die the death. It had no root, and it withers away whereas, let there be a root and ever such a small budding of leaves, sometimes merciful nature makes it grow. Christian looked at her husband many times, stealthily, whenever he did not notice her. She liked to look at him. She liked to judge his face, not with the expression it wore toward herself; that she knew well--alas! too well; but as it was when turned toward other people, interested in them and in the ordinary duties of life, which sometimes, when absorbed in a passionate love, a man lets slip for the time. Now she saw him as he was in reality, the head of his family, the master of his college, the center of a circle of friends; doing his work in the world as a man ought to do it, and as a woman dearly loves to see him do it. Christian's eye brightened, and a faint warmth seemed creeping into her dull, deadened heart. While she was thinking thus, and wondering if it were real, her heart suddenly stopped still. It was only at the sound of a name, repeated in idle conversation by two ladies behind her. "Edwin Uniacke! Yes, it is quite true. My husband was speaking of it only this morning. He is Sir Edwin Uniacke now, with a large fortune besides." "He didn't deserve it. If ever there was an utter scapegrace, it was he. He broke his poor mother's heart; she died during that affair. The dean must have known all about it?" "Yes, but he and the master kept it very much to themselves. My husband hates talking; and as for Dr. Grey--" "The dean paid me a long visit this morning, Mrs. Brereton," suddenly interrupted Dr. Grey. "We were congratulating ourselves on our prospects. We think there are one or two men who will do Saint Bede's great credit next year."