“Richard—I can’t call you Dick now, I really don’t know why”—she said, “I want to beg a favour of you.” “Name it. I can still call you Bella, I suppose?” “If you care to. What I want to say is this: when you meet me out—to cut it short—please not to recognize me.” “And why?” “Do you ask to be told that?” “Certainly I do.” “Then look: I won’t compromise you.” “I see no harm, Bella.” “No,” she caressed his hand, “and there is none. I know that. But,” modest eyelids were drooped, “other people do,” struggling eyes were raised. “What do we care for other people?” “Nothing. I don’t. Not that!” snapping her finger, “I care for you, though.” A prolonged look followed the declaration. “You’re foolish, Bella.” “Not quite so giddy—that’s all.” He did not combat it with his usual impetuosity. Adrian’s abrupt inquiry had sunk in his mind, as the wise youth intended it should. He had instinctively refrained from speaking to Lucy of this lady. But what a noble creature the woman was! So they met in the park; Mrs. Mount whipped past him; and secresy added a new sense to their intimacy. Adrian was gratified at the result produced by his eloquence. Though this lady never expressed an idea, Richard was not mistaken in her cleverness. She could make evenings pass gaily, and one was not the fellow to the other. She could make you forget she was a woman, and then bring the fact startlingly home to you. She could read men with one quiver of her half-closed eye-lashes. She could catch the coming mood in a man, and fit herself to it. What does a woman want with ideas, who can do thus much? Keenness of perception, conformity, delicacy of handling, these be all the qualities necessary to parasites. Love would have scared the youth: she banished it from her tongue. It may also have been true that it sickened her. She played on his higher nature. She understood spontaneously what would be most strange and taking to him in a woman. Various as the Serpent of old Nile, she acted fallen beauty, humorous indifference, reckless daring, arrogance in ruin. And acting thus, what think you?—She did it so well because she was growing half in earnest. “Richard! I am not what I was since I knew you. You will not give me up quite?” “Never, Bella.” “I am not so bad as I’m painted!” “You are only unfortunate.” “Now that I know you I think so, and yet I am happier.” She told him her history when this soft horizon of repentance seemed to throw heaven’s twilight across it. A woman’s history, you know: certain chapters expunged. It was dark enough to Richard. “Did you love the man?” he asked. “You say you love no one now.” “Did I love him? He was a nobleman and I a tradesman’s daughter. No. I did not love him. I have lived to learn it. And now I should hate him, if I did not despise him.” “Can you be deceived in love?” said Richard, more to himself than to her.