During Anthony's absence of some years the Dean died and he returned to the inheritance of entailed property. But he did not live on it. If in England he must be near Cynthia. He took a house near the Minster, accepted an honorary canonry to please his mother by keeping up a link with the ecclesiastical prestige of the place, and devoted his time to study. His library was upstairs, and Cynthia knew he had made interest with one of the woodmen for the felling of a tree and the lopping of some branches that hid his view of the Hall. One day he showed her it, explaining how cleverly it had been managed. His manner proved to her as well as words could have done that time had quenched none of his affection. It had taught him to endure, and still to be happy and useful. He had not prayed for more. She stood in the window silently for a long time. He had never touched her so much. There was such a noble and simple courage about him that the pathos of it all nearly overcame her. At last she turned and smiled tremblingly. 'Anthony,' she said, 'I would have given all that will one day be mine to have been able to be your wife.' There was no uncertainty in his smile. It was quick and bright. 'I know you would, Cynthia. Nothing is your fault, it is our joint misfortune. You may still find a perfect happiness. As for me I shall be faithful, as you would have been had you cared. That is my happiness, and to be able to be so near to you, I can enjoy that now--"so near and yet so far,"' he added after a moment's pause. His tone was more wistful than he knew. Cynthia felt herself on the very verge of yielding to a sudden strong impulse which she was impelled to trust. She put out her hand. But he was not looking. He had looked and been unnerved. He had thought himself stronger. With a hasty movement he turned to the table and took up a pamphlet, furling its edges with fingers that might at that moment have closed over Cynthia Marlowe's in lifelong possession. Her courage failed. She went to the other side of the table and surveyed the accumulation of books and papers; most of them were, she knew, in Hindostānee and Sanskrit. The sight did not abash her. On the contrary it renewed her courage. 'Anthony, you know that line-- "I do not understand, I love,"' she said; 'now, in how many languages can you conjugate those verbs?' But he did not look up, and nervousness made her tones too buoyant. He never saw the light in her eyes which would at last have answered the question in his. 'In nine languages and a dozen dialects,' he said lightly. She had failed to convey her meaning. Her lips closed. She shut her eyes, feeling for a moment faint and tired. When she wished him good-bye, he thought she looked at him strangely. But he did not guess the truth or know that he had failed to take the tide 'at the flood.' In a few days she ceased to wonder what was truth.