‘Only because he has at last consented to succumb to Nature. He would not before admit, even to himself, that he is an old man. Nature counselled him to rest, but it pleased him better to go on labouring, and, as it were, pretending to be still young. He has given in at last; and Nature, the great restorer, may do much for him, always assisted by careful nursing—and I think you are the best nurse I ever met with, Lucille.’ ‘I have not much experience, but I do my best.’ ‘And your best is better than other people’s. You have the soft low voice, the gentle footstep, which make a woman’s help precious in a sick-room. Don’t be anxious about your grandfather, dearest. We shall pull him through, rely upon it.’ There was that in his protecting tone, the fond look in the grave eyes, which told how secure the lover felt, despite that hard condition wherewith Lucille had hampered the promise of her love. Thus time went on in the dull old house, which to these two was not all gloomy—which to one at least was full of hope and pleasant thoughts, and bright dreams of a fair life to come. Propriety, as known in what is called society, had no bondage for these lovers. In their lives there was actually no Mrs. Grundy; not even a next-door neighbour of the maiden-lady persuasion to keep count of Mr. Davoren’s visits, and to wonder what old Mr. Sivewright meant by allowing such an outrage of the proprieties under his very nose. Lucius came and went as he pleased, stayed as long as he liked, within reasonable limits. He read Shakespeare to Lucille in the summer gloaming; he poured out all the wealth of his mind to her in long conversations that were almost monologues, the girl eager to learn, he eager to teach; or rather to make the woman he loved a sharer in all his thoughts, fancies, creeds, and dreams—verily the better and purer half of himself. At other times they wandered about the bare old garden together, or sat in the ruined summer-house; and happy in that complete and perfect universe which they possessed in each other, forgot that the mud-bespattered wharf was not the Rialto, the slimy water that stagnated beneath the barges something less lovely than the Adriatic’s sunlit blue.