“To be plain, he’s suffered a lot. I’ve got the pleasure of being his friend, because he knows I’m a man who keeps himself to himself, and doesn’t push in where angels fear to tread. He’s given me his confidence, and I find this has been a very cruel facer for Dingle—knocked him out altogether. He’ll get over it some day, as a brave man should. But he’s got a warm heart, and he’ll never be quite the same again—naturally.” “If he’s suffered, so have I,” said Medora, “and if you’re in his confidence, I may tell you that I want all my pluck and a bit over sometimes. I knew more or less what I was going to face; but I didn’t know all.” “No woman ever does know all when she takes over a man. It cuts both ways, however. Kellock didn’t know all when he ran away with you.” “Know all! No, he don’t know all. He don’t know half what I thought he knew, and what I’d a right to think he knew.” “Dear me!” said Mr. Knox. “Don’t he, Medora?” “I’m speaking in confidence, I hope?” “That be sure of. I’m old enough to be your father, and shall faithfully respect your secrets, just as I respect Mr. Kellock’s, or Ned’s, or anybody’s.” “Sometimes I think my life’s going to turn into one long Sunday now,” she said. “That’s a good sign, because it shows you’re grasping the stern truth; and it shows Jordan’s breaking you in. Once you’re broken in, Medora, you and him will come together in a real understanding spirit. No doubt the first stages are rather painful to a handsome, clever bit like you, with dashing ideas, and the memory of what life was with Ned; but only give Kellock time, and the past will grow dim, and you’ll get used to the everlasting Sunday idea. I greatly admire Kellock, because he never changes. He’ll be a bit monotonous at first compared with the past, but he’ll wear. You’ll feel you’re always living in cold, bitter clear moonlight with Kellock; and I dare say you’ll miss the sunshine a bit for ten years or so; but gradually you’ll get chilled down to his way. And once you’ve settled to it, you’ll hate the sunshine, and come to be just a wise, owl-eyed sort, same as him.” Medora could not conceal a shiver. “You’ve voted for moonlight and cold water against sunshine and a glass of sparkling now and again—and, no doubt, you’re right, Medora.” She turned on him passionately. “Don’t—don’t, for God’s sake!” she cried. “What d’you think I’m made of—ice?” “Not yet. You can’t change your happy nature all in a minute. It’ll come over you gradual—like the salt over Lot’s wife. You naturally want to know what Ned’s going to do about it, and I’ve been at him on that score—because your mother’s asked me to. She don’t like the present doubt and delay, and so on. It’s uncomfortable, and makes the unrighteous scoff.” “If he wants us to eat dirt—”