concealing veil in the right folds.  She took his gaiety from him—­since it had to pass with them for gaiety—­as she took everything else; but she certainly so far justified by her unerring touch his finer sense of the degree to which he had ended by convincing her. She at least never spoke of the secret of his life except as “the real truth about you,” and she had in fact a wonderful way of making it seem, as such, the secret of her own life too.  That was in fine how he so constantly felt her as allowing for him; he couldn’t on the whole call it anything else.  He allowed for himself, but she, exactly, allowed still more; partly because, better placed for a sight of the matter, she traced his unhappy perversion through reaches of its course into which he could scarce follow it.  He knew how he felt, but, besides knowing that, she knew how he looked as well; he knew each of the things of importance he was insidiously kept from doing, but she could add up the amount they made, understand how much, with a lighter weight on his spirit, he might have done, and thereby establish how, clever as he was, he fell short.  Above all she was in the secret of the difference between the forms he went through—­those of his little office under Government, those of caring for his modest patrimony, for his library, for his garden in the country, for the people in London whose invitations he accepted and repaid—­and the detachment that reigned beneath them and that made of all behaviour, all that could in the least be called behaviour, a long act of dissimulation.  What it had come to was that he wore a mask painted with the social simper, out of the eye-holes of which there looked eyes of an expression not in the least matching the other features.  This the stupid world, even after years, had never more than half discovered.  It was only May Bartram who had, and she achieved, by an art indescribable, the feat of at once—­or perhaps it was only alternately—­meeting the eyes from in front and mingling her own vision, as from over his shoulder, with their peep through the apertures.

So while they grew older together she did watch with him, and so she let this association give shape and colour to her own existence.  Beneath her forms as well detachment had learned to sit, and behaviour had become for her, in the social sense, a false account of herself.  There was but one account of her that would have been true all the while and that she could give straight to nobody, least of all to John Marcher.  Her whole attitude was a virtual statement, but the perception of that only seemed called to take its place for him as one of the many things necessarily crowded out of his consciousness.  If she had moreover, like himself, to make sacrifices to their real truth, it was to be granted that her compensation might have affected her as more prompt and more natural.  They had long periods, in this London time, during which, when they were together, a stranger might have