‘Wilt have thi pipe, lad? It’s theer; I’st get it in a minute.’ ‘No, thank you, Molly. I don’t care about smoking to-night.’ ‘Did iver ony one see sich a chap?’ said Mary, secretly filled with pride in him. ‘He ne’er drinks, and he ne’er hardly smokes, and he ne’er does nowt disagreeable.’ ‘He hasn’t a redeeming vice,’ said Myles, ironically, watching her fingers as she plied her needle, and forcing himself to speak, though he did it half mechanically. What was she making? he asked. ‘A shirt.’ ‘For whom?’ ‘Why, for thee, lad!’ said Mary, with a laugh and a look at him; and Myles returned the look with a smile, and instantly became lost in a long train of reflection. Edmund and Mary loved him, and looked up to him as to a superior being, as the centre figure in their lives, and the person around whom clustered their hopes, fears, and loves. Beyond them, out of their circle, was Adrienne Blisset; was it in the nature of things that she could ever behold him with eyes like theirs? No, never; because she was instructed, and they were ignorant. Well, was adoration the best thing for a man? Was it not better to adore? Could there be any shame in the worship of a woman like Adrienne? He decided, no. It was not the giving up of independence--it was the bending to a superior being, which, when that attitude was self-elected, was the highest independence. Here all was secure, safe, assured. Nothing would ever change the love of these two for him: outside there, where Adrienne was, all was storm, cloudy, feverish, uncertain: he knew not what she thought of him--what feelings or no-feelings her gracious manner might cover. He had defended her--from the first moment of their intercourse his attitude had been made by circumstances a protecting one: he felt at once an inferiority and a superiority to her, which two things do surely form part of the primal basis of pure and holy love. He stood still, leaning against the chimney-piece, thinking of what he had this night done for her sake, and his face flushed at the remembrance. ‘Can she ever be like another woman to me?’ he thought. ‘It is impossible. If it were possible I should be a clod.’ For what he had done counted for something with Myles: he was not one of those heroes who will thrash you half a dozen fellows, twice as big as themselves, and then require to be reminded of such a trifle. He was not quite sure, even now, that he felt unmixed satisfaction in the deed. To thrash a cowardly bully, who seemed unable to express himself without the assistance of copious volleys of oaths, was one thing, and Myles contemplated with some complacency the fact that he had done it. But if any evil consequences should ensue to Adrienne!