Meanwhile Fanshawe had been passing his time very uncomfortably, on the whole, wandering about the Channel Islands the first part of his journey, and asking himself half dolefully, half with a certain rueful amusement whether his next stage should be Australia or New Zealand. He had written to Marjory from London, where he returned within three days of his precipitate departure; but he had not had courage enough to write to her since, having felt that he must wait for something to tell. It would be difficult to describe the effect produced upon Fanshawe’s mind by his late interview with her. She had disappointed him by her pre-occupation, wounded him by what he could not but feel to be indifference to himself, and by the almost harsh readiness to take advantage of him, and employ him in her service, which she had shown. A man may be very ready to say that he will go through fire and water to serve the lady of his affections, and may mean it; but when that lady sends for him abruptly, and lays her commands upon him, calling him frankly, not for his sake, but because he can be of use--not all the serviceableness in the world will prevent the man from feeling that this is hard upon him. That no woman can accept such services without--one way or other--paying for them, is a consolation which suggests itself only to the calculating and cold-blooded lover. The generous soul that offers itself without hire or reward is very apt to despair of remuneration; but even while taking the yoke upon him, it is disagreeable for a man to feel that it is not him, but the use of him, that a woman wants. This was Fanshawe’s feeling; he was glad to do all that man could do for her; but yet to be simply made use of was hard. And after all, Tom Heriot, and the Heriots generally, were so little to him in comparison with Marjory! But with these feelings there mingled some which were very different. He felt a respect for her, because she was able to resist all that vague fascination which subjugated himself; he admired her insensibility; it seemed well that a woman such as she, should be slow to be won--if ever she could be won by such a man as himself, which Fanshawe felt to be unlikely enough. Sometimes he had moments of great depression on this score, and felt that the idea was not one to be entertained or thought of; and then again the atmosphere of dreams would steal over him, that atmosphere which envelops everything in a sweet mist and uncertainty, where nothing is sure, and all is possible. Her very decision, her energy, the way in which she had sent him forth--though he did not like it--increased his admiration of her. It was so unlike himself; so much better than himself. And the little fluctuations of temper, the shades of offence, of withdrawal, of partial anger, which showed themselves when he did not agree with her, or was not rapid enough in following her conclusions, were sweet to him, sweeter than all her excellences.