She had been sincere in her casual assurance that she loved him. After Millicent’s death she had believed she never could love anyone again. But she had been made over in so many ways! She certainly loved Elsie, in a lesser degree Polly; she could have been fond of her grandmother if she had lived a few years longer and been well and companionable. And Eustace. He was the perfect companion and friend. He never struck a false note, he was kind, sympathetic, and understanding—unique among men, she was convinced. He had flashed the torch of his splendid intelligence into every dark recess of her being, and chased out the bogies. He could not bore if he made a valiant attempt, and he knew when to talk, to listen, and to ask her opinion on subjects of which even she knew more than himself. He never assumed the detestable superiority of the male, and yet was never unmanly. No man could be less so. He was a virile figure on the links and tennis-court, he could outwalk herself, he was a fine swimmer. In France he had served with distinction and she knew that if the peace of his country were threatened again he would be the first to enlist. Even when lounging in the deepest of her chairs or stretched out at full length in the wood he never suggested weakness or inertia. And his books—she had now read them all—had power in spite of their refinement of phrasing and vocabulary, their supreme mental distinction. He wrote about sex a lot, to be sure, but in the detached manner of a medical student dissecting the physical anatomy. His personal attitude to his characters no reader could guess. He was primarily an intellect handsomely provided by Nature with a sound healthy body that it might send a stream of pure blood to his brain. In his relations with her he never suggested sex for a moment. Not even this morning. He had been on the psychological hunt as usual. She had encountered the eyes of too many carnalites. Encountered them still. If he wanted to marry her in order to keep her for himself without scandal, that was natural enough. He had had two perfect comrades in his life, herself and his mother, and as he had lost one irrevocably it was not likely he would lose the other if he could help it. Nor could _she_ give _him_ up, not even if she were obliged to marry him to save herself from being the object of loathsome suspicions and innuendoes. Well, why not? The ceremony would be a mere concession to prejudice, and they could go on as they were forever. She would have his protection and companionship, and he would have the one woman in his life who had meant anything to him since Bladina’s death. And be mightily proud of herself besides. She would cultivate the Carteret grand manner and be one more feather in his already decorated cap. He had given her more than one cause for the profoundest gratitude, and it would be her delight to repay him.