“Will you?  Will you want me to wear them so often?” she asked, in an odd voice.  “Anyway, I should like to have just these, and nothing else.  I am glad that we know nobody, and have no friends, and that I shall have so few presents.  You won’t give me many jewels, will you?” she said suddenly, insistently, turning to him.  “I shouldn’t know what to do with them.  I used to have a magpie’s wish for them; and now—­I don’t know, but they don’t give me pleasure.  Not these, of course—­not these!” she added hurriedly, taking them up and beginning to fasten the bracelets on her wrists.

Aldous looked perplexed.

“My darling!” he said, half laughing, and in the tone of the apologist, “You know we have such a lot of things.  And I am afraid my grandfather will want to give them all to you.  Need one think so much about it?  It isn’t as though they had to be bought fresh.  They go with pretty gowns, don’t they, and other people like to see them?”

“No, but it’s what they imply—­the wealth—­the having so much while other people want so much.  Things begin to oppress me so!” she broke out, instinctively moving away from him that she might express herself with more energy.  “I like luxuries so desperately, and when I get them I seem to myself now the vulgarest creature alive, who has no right to an opinion or an enthusiasm, or anything else worth having.  You must not let me like them—­you must help me not to care about them!”

Raeburn’s eye as he looked at her was tenderness itself.  He could of course neither mock her, nor put what she said aside.  This question she had raised, this most thorny of all the personal questions of the present—­the ethical relation of the individual to the World’s Fair and its vanities—­was, as it happened, a question far more sternly and robustly real to him than it was to her.  Every word in his few sentences, as they stood talking by the fire, bore on it for a practised ear the signs of a long wrestle of the heart.

But to Marcella it sounded tame; her ear was haunted by the fragments of another tune which she seemed to be perpetually trying to recall and piece together.  Aldous’s slow minor made her impatient.

He turned presently to ask her what she had been doing with her morning—­asking her with a certain precision, and observing her attentively.  She replied that she had been showing Mr. Wharton the house, that he had walked down with her to the village, and was gone to a meeting at Widrington.  Then she remarked that he was very good company, and very clever, but dreadfully sure of his own opinion.  Finally she laughed, and said drily: 

“There will be no putting him down all the same.  I haven’t told anybody yet, but he saved my life this morning.”

Aldous caught her wrists.

“Saved your life!  Dear—­What do you mean?”

She explained, giving the little incident all—­perhaps more than—­its dramatic due.  He listened with evident annoyance, and stood pondering when she came to an end.