understood to dote on each other; and it was not unprecedented that an accidental slip of the foot should have brought these grave consequences.  The legal investigation ended in Madame Laure’s release.  Lydgate by this time had had many interviews with her, and found her more and more adorable.  She talked little; but that was an additional charm.  She was melancholy, and seemed grateful; her presence was enough, like that of the evening light.  Lydgate was madly anxious about her affection, and jealous lest any other man than himself should win it and ask her to marry him.  But instead of reopening her engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, where she would have been all the more popular for the fatal episode, she left Paris without warning, forsaking her little court of admirers.  Perhaps no one carried inquiry far except Lydgate, who felt that all science had come to a stand-still while he imagined the unhappy Laure, stricken by ever-wandering sorrow, herself wandering, and finding no faithful comforter.  Hidden actresses, however, are not so difficult to find as some other hidden facts, and it was not long before Lydgate gathered indications that Laure had taken the route to Lyons.  He found her at last acting with great success at Avignon under the same name, looking more majestic than ever as a forsaken wife carrying her child in her arms.  He spoke to her after the play, was received with the usual quietude which seemed to him beautiful as clear depths of water, and obtained leave to visit her the next day; when he was bent on telling her that he adored her, and on asking her to marry him.  He knew that this was like the sudden impulse of a madman—­incongruous even with his habitual foibles.  No matter!  It was the one thing which he was resolved to do.  He had two selves within him apparently, and they must learn to accommodate each other and bear reciprocal impediments.  Strange, that some of us, with quick alternate vision, see beyond our infatuations, and even while we rave on the heights, behold the wide plain where our persistent self pauses and awaits us.

To have approached Laure with any suit that was not reverentially tender would have been simply a contradiction of his whole feeling towards her.

“You have come all the way from Paris to find me?” she said to him the next day, sitting before him with folded arms, and looking at him with eyes that seemed to wonder as an untamed ruminating animal wonders.  “Are all Englishmen like that?”

“I came because I could not live without trying to see you.  You are lonely; I love you; I want you to consent to be my wife; I will wait, but I want you to promise that you will marry me—­ no one else.”

Laure looked at him in silence with a melancholy radiance from under her grand eyelids, until he was full of rapturous certainty, and knelt close to her knees.

“I will tell you something,” she said, in her cooing way, keeping her arms folded.  “My foot really slipped.”