And yet the horrible selfishness of the point of view! What right had she to deny him such little gifts as he might secure from life, which is so rarely bountiful? His inward life, all its purposes and ambitions, would be hers, and in a career like his there must inevitably be dark moments when home comfort and joys, which he had never had, might brace him to meet his difficulties, and nerve him, by sheer force of reaction, for future battles. She looked at Dora critically. Perhaps they had all misjudged her. Her heart seemed to be set upon her object with absolute determination; and if she loved Farquharson enough, nothing else mattered. Love was what he needed—love near at hand, love wrapping him round. The love which "feels no burthen, gives all for all and is all in all, which watches and, sleeping, slumbers not, when weary is not tired." "You love Mr. Farquharson—you want me to understand that you really love him?" she said at last. "Love is such a big thing, Dora, I often wonder if girls understand it. Modern men and women take more trouble to choose a housekeeper than they give to the choice of a life-long companion. Marriage is all give and take—and there’s more in those words than you will ever realize until you’ve gone right through the marriage service, and come out at the other side. It’s a thing of deadly gravity, marriage, not a mere shifting of responsibility, or the prospect of a better position, or the escape from home discomfort. You are one of the lucky people to whom none of these three incentives need appeal. Oh, Dora, there are so many unhappy marriages in this world, and I’m so tired of them! Do make up your mind that yours shall be a beautiful success, not just a brilliant one." "You always take things so seriously," Dora said tartly. "Of course I love him. Why should I want to marry him rather than any one else? It’s not as if he were the only one. I’m only asking you to chaperon me for this one evening, not a lifetime, and it’s nothing to make such a fuss about, after all. I never get an opportunity of saying a word to him without everybody seeing. Even servants may be reporters in disguise. It makes even me unlike myself; and I know it’s only the fear of being seen and watched that keeps him from speaking to me. When he was not so important he used to talk to me quite a lot, and quite intimately. I remember one night at the Wereminsters’ when he spoke of you—implied he liked you, but said you weren’t his style, or something of the sort. For such a man that meant a lot. I’m not a woman to make confidences, as you know, so I appreciate reserve in others. I’ve come to you because you’ve seen everything from the first. You’re married, you’ve got all you want; why can’t you help me by giving me one or two of the opportunities nobody else in the whole world knows that I long for?"