And then, not without a certain grave sweetness of manner that made her heart ache, alike with tender shame to think how little her dead husband had ever been accounted of, compared with this now possible future one, and with such jealousy as one may feel of a dead wife who would have cared as little for long remembrance as she had done for living affection, Emily listened, while he managed quite naturally, and by the slightest hints, to bring her also in—­her past lot and opinions.  She felt, rather than heard, the intention; “and he could not presume to say,” he went on, “he was not sure whether a man might hope for a second marriage, which could have all the advantages of a first.  Yet he thought that in any suitable marriage there might be enough benefit on both sides to make it almost equally.”

“Equally what?” Emily wondered.

John was trying to speak in a very matter-of-fact way, as merely laying down his views.

“Equally advantageous,” he said at last; and not without difficulty.

“John,” said Emily, rallying a little, and speaking with the least little touch of audacity,—­“John, you are always fond of advancing your abstract theories.  Now, I should have thought that if a man had felt any want in his first marriage, he would have tried for something more in a second, rather than have determined that there was no more to be had.”

“Unless his reason assured him in more sober hours that he had had all, and given all that could in reason be expected,” John answered.  “I did not confess to having felt any want,” he presently added.  “Call this, since it pleases you, my abstract theory.”

And then Emily felt that she too must speak; her dead husband deserved it of her far more than his dead wife had ever done.

“I do please,” she answered; “this can be only an abstract theory to me.  I knew no want of love in my marriage, only a frequent self-reproach—­to think that I was unworthy, because I could not enough return it.”

“A most needless self-reproach,” he answered.  “I venture to hope that people should never rebuke themselves because they happen to be incapable of romantic passion, or any of the follies of youthful love.”

“Intended to restore my self-esteem.  Shall I not soon be able to make you feel differently?” thought Emily.  “You still remember Janie; you will never let her be disparaged.  I think none the worse of you for that, my beloved—­my hope.”

He was silent till she glanced up at him again, with a sweet wistfulness, that was rather frequent with her; turning half round—­for he stood at her side, not quite enough at his ease to look continually in her face—­he was much surprised to find her so charming, so naive in all her movements, and in the flitting expressions of her face.