‘The mantle of Elijah!’ she said. ‘Would it might inspire me to rival him, glorious genius that he is!’ Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turned to look at herself in the glass. _His_ heart had beat inside that coat, and _his_ brain had worked under that hat at levels of thought she would never reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside him made her feel quite sick. Before she had got the things off her the door opened, and her husband entered the room. ‘What the devil—’ She blushed, and removed them ‘I found them in the closet here,’ she said, ‘and put them on in a freak. What have I else to do? You are always away!’ ‘Always away? Well . . . ’ That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who might herself have nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so ready was she to discourse ardently about him. ‘You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma’am,’ she said; ‘and he has just sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow afternoon to look up some books of his that he wants, if I’ll be in, and he may select them from your room?’ ‘O yes!’ ‘You could very well meet Mr Trewe then, if you’d like to be in the way!’ She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of him. Next morning her husband observed: ‘I’ve been thinking of what you said, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you without much to amuse you. Perhaps it’s true. To-day, as there’s not much sea, I’ll take you with me on board the yacht.’ For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was not glad. But she accepted it for the moment. The time for setting out drew near, and she went to get ready. She stood reflecting. The longing to see the poet she was now distinctly in love with overpowered all other considerations. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she said to herself. ‘I can’t bear to be away! And I won’t go.’ She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wishing to sail. He was indifferent, and went his way. For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children having gone out upon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to the soft, steady stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had drawn almost all the residents and promenaders away from the vicinity of Coburg House. A knock was audible at the door. Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and she became impatient. The books were in the room where she sat; but nobody came up. She rang the bell. ‘There is some person waiting at the door,’ she said. ‘O no, ma’am! He’s gone long ago. I answered it.’ Mrs. Hooper came in herself. ‘So disappointing!’ she said. ‘Mr. Trewe not coming after all!’ ‘But I heard him knock, I fancy!’