She was ready, also, to convict him of certain prejudices and superstitions which roused in her an intellectual impatience.  But when all was said, Delafield, unconsciously, was drawing her towards him, as the fowler draws a fluttering bird.  It was the exquisite refinement of those spiritual insights and powers he possessed which constantly appealed, not only to her heart, but—­a very important matter in Julie’s case—­to her taste, to her own carefully tempered instinct for the rare and beautiful.

He was the master, then, she admitted, of a certain vein of spiritual genius.  Well, here should he lead—­and even, if he pleased, command her.  She would sit at his feet, and he should open to her ranges of feeling, delights, and subtleties of moral sensation hitherto unknown to her.

Thus the feeling of ennui and reaction which had marked the first weeks of her married life had now wholly disappeared.  Delafield was no longer dull or pedantic in her eyes.  She passed alternately from moments of intolerable smart and pity for the dead to moments of agitation and expectancy connected with her husband.  She thought over their meeting of the night before; she looked forward to similar hours to come.

Meanwhile his relation towards her in many matters was still naively ignorant and humble—­determined by the simplicity of a man of some real greatness, who never dreamed of claiming tastes or knowledge he did not possess, whether in small things or large.  This phase, however, only gave the more value to one which frequently succeeded it.  For suddenly the conversation would enter regions where he felt himself peculiarly at home, and, with the same unconsciousness on his part, she would be made to feel the dignity and authority which surrounded his ethical and spiritual life.  And these contrasts—­this weakness and this strength—­combined with the man-and-woman element which is always present in any situation of the kind, gave rise to a very varied and gradually intensifying play of feeling between them.  Feeling only possible, no doubt, for the raffines of this world; but for them full of strange charm, and even of excitement.

* * * * *

Delafield left the little inn for Montreux, Lausanne, and London that afternoon.  He bent to kiss his wife at the moment of his departure, in the bare sitting-room that had been improvised for them on the ground floor of the hotel, and as she let her face linger ever so little against his she felt strong arms flung round her, and was crushed against his breast in a hungry embrace.  When he released her with a flush and a murmured word of apology she shook her head, smiling sadly but saying nothing.  The door closed on him, and at the sound she made a hasty step forward.

“Jacob!  Take me with you!”

But her voice died in the rattle and bustle of the diligence outside, and she was left trembling from head to foot, under a conflict of emotions that seemed now to exalt, now to degrade her.