‘In the first place, because you are a much cleverer fellow than I am, a better judge of human nature, able to read aright much that is a mystery to me. In the second place, you, who are not blinded by passion, ought speedily to discover whether I am only fooling myself with the fancy that my love is returned. You know I was just a little inclined to be jealous of you the last time you were here, old fellow.’ ‘You had not the faintest reason.’ ‘I know. Of course not. But I was fool enough to grudge you even her gratitude. I don’t mean to repeat that idiotcy. You are the only friend whose opinions I really respect. The common run of one’s acquaintance I look upon as egotistical monomaniacs; that is to say, they have all gone mad upon the subject of self, and are incompetent to reason upon anything that has not self for its centre. But you, Lucius, have a wider mind; and I believe, your judgment being untroubled by passion, you will be able to read this mystery aright, to fathom the secret my darkened eyes have vainly striven to pierce.’ ‘I believe that I can, Geoffrey,’ said Lucius gravely. ‘But tell me first, do you really wish this mystery solved, for good or for evil, at the risk even of disenchantment?’ ‘At any hazard; the present uncertainty is unbearable. I am tortured by the belief that she loves me, and yet withholds her love. That if inclination were her only guide, she would be my wife. And yet she toils on, and lives on, lonely, joyless, with nothing but her child’s love to brighten her dreary days.’ ‘There are many women who find that enough for happiness. But, no doubt, as your wife her existence might be gayer, her position more secure.’ ‘Of course. Think of her, Lucius, that loveliest and most refined among women, slaving for a pittance.’ ‘I do think of her, I sympathise with her, I admire and honour her,’ answered the other, with unwonted earnestness. ‘And yet you advise me against marrying her. That seems hardly consistent.’ ‘I have advised you not to marry her in ignorance of her past life. If she will tell you the secret of that past—without reserve—and you find nothing in the story to diminish your love, I will no longer say do not marry her. But there must be nothing kept back—nothing hidden. She must tell you all; even if her heart almost breaks in the telling. And it will then be for you to renounce her and your love; or to take her to your heart of hearts to reign there for ever.’ ‘I do not fear the test,’ cried Geoffrey eagerly. ‘She can have nothing to tell me that she should blush to speak or I to hear. She is all goodness and truth.’ ‘Have you ever asked for her confidence?’ ‘Never. Remember, Lucius, I possess her friendship only on sufferance. In a moment she may give me my irrevocable dismissal, forbid me ever to speak to her any more, as she has forbidden me to visit her. I could not afford to surrender even those occasional hours we spend together.’