Grandcourt said, “Do you know how long it is since I first saw you in this dress?” “The archery meeting was on the 25th, and this is the 13th,” said Gwendolen, laughingly. “I am not good at calculating, but I will venture to say that it must be nearly three weeks.” A little pause, and then he said, “That is a great loss of time.” “That your knowing me has caused you? Pray don’t be uncomplimentary; I don’t like it.” Pause again. “It is because of the gain that I feel the loss.” Here Gwendolen herself left a pause. She was thinking, “He is really very ingenious. He never speaks stupidly.” Her silence was so unusual that it seemed the strongest of favorable answers, and he continued: “The gain of knowing you makes me feel the time I lose in uncertainty. Do _you_ like uncertainty?” “I think I do, rather,” said Gwendolen, suddenly beaming on him with a playful smile. “There is more in it.” Grandcourt met her laughing eyes with a slow, steady look right into them, which seemed like vision in the abstract, and then said, “Do you mean more torment for me?” There was something so strange to Gwendolen in this moment that she was quite shaken out of her usual self-consciousness. Blushing and turning away her eyes, she said, “No, that would make me sorry.” Grandcourt would have followed up this answer, which the change in her manner made apparently decisive of her favorable intention; but he was not in any way overcome so as to be unaware that they were now, within sight of everybody, descending the space into Green Arbor, and descending it at an ill-chosen point where it began to be inconveniently steep. This was a reason for offering his hand in the literal sense to help her; she took it, and they came down in silence, much observed by those already on the level—among others by Mrs. Arrowpoint, who happened to be standing with Mrs. Davilow. That lady had now made up her mind that Grandcourt’s merits were not such as would have induced Catherine to accept him, Catherine having so high a standard as to have refused Lord Slogan. Hence she looked at the tenant of Diplow with dispassionate eyes. “Mr. Grandcourt is not equal as a man to his uncle, Sir Hugo Mallinger—too languid. To be sure, Mr. Grandcourt is a much younger man, but I shouldn’t wonder if Sir Hugo were to outlive him, notwithstanding the difference of years. It is ill calculating on successions,” concluded Mrs. Arrowpoint, rather too loudly. “It is indeed,” said Mrs. Davilow, able to assent with quiet cheerfulness, for she was so well satisfied with the actual situation of affairs that her habitual melancholy in their general unsatisfactoriness was altogether in abeyance.