‘Because I carry a touchstone that brings out the truth. I am your reality: all others are phantoms. You can impose on them, not on me. Courage for one inspired plunge you may have, and it will be your salvation:--southward, over to Italy, that is the line of flight, and the subsequent struggle will be mine: you will not have to face it. But the courage for daily contention at home, standing alone, while I am distant and maligned--can you fancy your having that? No! be wise of what you really are; cast the die for love, and mount away tomorrow.’ ‘Then,’ said Clotilde, with elvish cunning, ‘do you doubt your ability to win me without a scandal?’ ‘Back me, and I win you!’ he replied in a tone of unwonted humility: a sudden droop. She let her hand fall. He grasped it. ‘Gradations appear to be unknown to you,’ she said. He cried out: ‘Count the years of life, span them, think of the work to be done, and ask yourself whether time and strength should run to waste in retarding the inevitable? Pottering up steps that can be taken at one bound is very well for peasant pilgrims whose shrine is their bourne, and their kneecaps the footing stumps. But for us two life begins up there. Onward, and everywhere around, when we two are together, is our shrine. I have worked, and wasted life; I have not lived, and I thirst to live.’ She murmured, in a fervour, ‘You shall!’ and slipped behind her defences. ‘To-morrow morning we shall wander about; I must have a little time; all to-morrow morning we can discuss plans.’ ‘You know you command me,’ said he, and gazed at her. She was really a child compared with him in years, and if it was an excuse for taking her destiny into his hands, she consenting,--it was also a reason why he dared not press his whole weight to win her to the step. She had the pride of the secret knowledge of her command of this giant at the long table of the guests at dinner, where, after some play of knife and fork among notable professors, Prussian officers, lively Frenchmen and Italians, and the usual over-supply of touring English of both sexes, not encouraging to conversation in their look of pallid disgust of the art, Alvan started general topics and led them. The lead came to him naturally, because he was a natural speaker, of a mind both stored and effervescent; and he was genial, interested in every growth of life. She did not wonder at his popularity among men of all classes and sets, or that he should be famed for charming women. Her friend was enraptured with him. Friendly questions pressed in an evening chatter between the ladies, and Clotilde fenced, which is half a confession. ‘But you are not engaged?’ said the blunt Englishwoman.