“At least he shall not be ashamed of me,” was the thought that kept her up through both weariness and resentment, and she found herself involuntarily looking toward the door every time it opened.  Would he come in?  At least his presence would bring her that sense of relief and protection which she had never failed to feel from the first hour she knew Dr. Arnold Grey.

He did come in, though not immediately, and passing her with a smile, which doubtless furnished the text for a whole week’s gossip in Avonsbridge, went over to talk to a group of ladies belonging to Saint Bede’s.

And now for the first time Christian saw what her husband was “in society.”

Next to a bad man or a fool, of all things most detestable is “a man of society;” a brilliant, showy person, who gathers round him a knot of listeners, to whom his one object is to exhibit himself.  But it is no small advantage for a man, even a clever or learned man, to feel and appear at home in any company; to be neither eccentric, nor proud nor shy; to have a pleasant word or smile for every body both; to seem and to be occupied with other people instead of with himself, and with what other people are thinking about him; in short, a frank, kindly, natural gentleman, so sure both of his position and himself that he takes no trouble in the assertion of either, but simply devotes himself to making all about him as comfortable and happy as he can.  And this was Dr. Arnold Grey.

He talked little and not brilliantly, but he knew how to make other people talk.  By some subtle, fine essence in his own nature, he seemed to extract the best aroma from every other; and better than most conversation was it to look at his kindly, earnest, listening face, as, in the pauses of politeness, Christian did look more than once; and a thrill shot through her, the consciousness, dear to every woman, of being proud of her husband.  Ay, whether she loved him, or not, she was certainly proud of him.

In all good hearts, love’s root is in goodness.  Deeper than even love itself is that ideal sense of being satisfied—­satisfied in all one’s moral nature, in the craving of one’s soul after what seems nearest perfection.  And though in many cases poor human hearts are so weak, or strong—­ which is it?—­that we cling to imperfectness, and love it simply because we love it with a sort of passionate pity, ever hoping to have its longings realized, still this kind of love is not the love which exalts, strengthens, glorifies.  Sooner or later it must die the death.  It had no root, and it withers away whereas, let there be a root and ever such a small budding of leaves, sometimes merciful nature makes it grow.