have buried it, after the way of woman, whose bosoms can be tombs, if we and the world allow them to be; absolutely sepulchres, where you lie dead, ghastly.  Even if not dead and horrible to think of, you may be lying cold, somewhere in a corner.  Even if embalmed, you may not be much visited.  And how is the world to know you are embalmed?  You are no better than a rotting wretch to the world that does not have peeps of you in the woman’s breast, and see lights burning and an occasional exhibition of the services of worship.  There are women—­tell us not of her of Ephesus!—­that have embalmed you, and have quitted the world to keep the tapers alight, and a stranger comes, and they, who have your image before them, will suddenly blow out the vestal flames and treat you as dust to fatten the garden of their bosoms for a fresh flower of love.  Sir Willoughby knew it; he had experience of it in the form of the stranger; and he knew the stranger’s feelings toward his predecessor and the lady.

He waylaid Laetitia, to talk of himself and his plans:  the project of a run to Italy.  Enviable?  Yes, but in England you live the higher moral life.  Italy boasts of sensual beauty; the spiritual is yours.  “I know Italy well; I have often wished to act as a cicerone to you there.  As it is, I suppose I shall be with those who know the land as well as I do, and will not be particularly enthusiastic:—­if you are what you were?” He was guilty of this perplexing twist from one person to another in a sentence more than once.  While he talked exclusively of himself it seemed to her a condescension.  In time he talked principally of her, beginning with her admirable care of his mother; and he wished to introduce “a Miss Middleton” to her; he wanted her opinion of Miss Middleton; he relied on her intuition of character, had never known it err.

“If I supposed it could err, Miss Dale, I should not be so certain of myself.  I am bound up in my good opinion of you, you see; and you must continue the same, or where shall I be?” Thus he was led to dwell upon friendship, and the charm of the friendship of men and women, “Platonism”, as it was called.  “I have laughed at it in the world, but not in the depth of my heart.  The world’s platonic attachments are laughable enough.  You have taught me that the ideal of friendship is possible—­when we find two who are capable of a disinterested esteem.  The rest of life is duty; duty to parents, duty to country.  But friendship is the holiday of those who can be friends.  Wives are plentiful, friends are rare.  I know how rare!”

Laetitia swallowed her thoughts as they sprang up.  Why was he torturing her?—­to give himself a holiday?  She could bear to lose him—­she was used to it—­and bear his indifference, but not that he should disfigure himself; it made her poor.  It was as if he required an oath of her when he said:  “Italy!  But I shall never see a day in Italy to compare with the day of my return to England, or know a pleasure so exquisite as your welcome of me.  Will you be true to that?  May I look forward to just another such meeting?”