Hermione smiled wistfully and forgivingly up at him. “Oh, I know! I know!” she said, “I have been through it all. I have come out the other side now! But I can make allowances for lovers. Isn’t it all too wonderful! And now I have seen you I can be glad. My dear little Elise! You won’t take her wholly away from me, will you?” John murmured that he shouldn’t think of such a thing, and sought refuge by looking at his boots. There was a peculiarly thrilling tone to Hermione’s voice which made him feel as if he were in church having his better feelings appealed to, and John always looked at his boots in an emotional crisis. “Let us be quite frank with each other,” Hermione said with great gentleness. “The word marriage is hateful to me. It has the sound of death in it. Believe me, John—marriage can be as cruel as the grave.” John cleared his throat and prayed that Elise might come in. He had no idea that any one could speak so intimately to him in so short a time. “Just at first,” said Hermione, “I faltered—Elise is dearer to me than any other creature. I had hoped to spare her the bitterness of experience. I did not want to see her as other women are—forgive my speaking in French—_une femme initiée_. But now I have seen you I feel a weight off my heart. You are a loyal, faithful Englishman—I think I can trust that dear child to you, John—I think I can say with an easy mind—‘Take my child—’” Hermione’s voice quivered, but she kept her grave, controlled eyes on John. John felt profoundly uncomfortable, but he was also deeply touched. No one who listened to Hermione ever measured the sense of her words—her low silvery voice entrapped them like a magic flute. John forgot that Elise happened to be Mr. Brett’s daughter—and that as Hermione had married very young and was considerably older than Elise, she had, as a matter of fact, seen very little of her. It seemed to him that he was receiving a sacred charge—and though he could not be eloquent in reply, the quick responsive look he gave his future sister-in-law was one of the finest tributes to her power which Hermione had ever received. Before she had time to fix this impression any deeper the door opened again and Mr. Brett came in. “Well, Hermione,” he said, without a change of countenance, “your resurrections contradict the hymn—they don’t come off in the morning.” Hermione said nothing: she waited until her father had walked the length of the room towards them, then with a little movement of grace and affection she threw herself into his arms. “Dear, dear Papa,” she murmured. There was an instant of complete unresponsiveness on her parent’s part before Hermione with equal grace disengaged herself and retook the easiest chair in the room. “Dear Papa,” she murmured, “how terribly aged and different you look. I must speak to darling Elise about it—these young people are perhaps a little blind in their great happiness. Suffering gives one eyes!”