“Well, then, to follow you, supposing the fish or the fisherman, for I don’t know which is which . . .  Oh! no, no:  this is too serious for imagery.  I am to understand that you thanked him at least for his reserve.”

“Yes.”

“Without the slightest encouragement to him to break it?”

“A fisherman’s float, Laetitia!”

Baffled and sighing, Laetitia kept silence for a space.  The simile chafed her wits with a suspicion of a meaning hidden in it.

“If he had spoken?” she said.

“He is too truthful a man.”

“And the railings of men at pussy women who wind about and will not be brought to a mark, become intelligible to me.”

“Then Laetitia, if he had spoken, if, and one could have imagined him sincere . . .”

“So truthful a man?”

“I am looking at myself If!—­why, then, I should have burnt to death with shame.  Where have I read?—­some story—­of an inextinguishable spark.  That would have been shot into my heart.”

“Shame, Clara?  You are free.”

“As much as remains of me.”

“I could imagine a certain shame, in such a position, where there was no feeling but pride.”

“I could not imagine it where there was no feeling but pride.”

Laetitia mused.  “And you dwell on the kindness of a proposition so extraordinary!” Gaining some light, impatiently she cried:  “Vernon loves you.”

“Do not say it!”

“I have seen it.”

“I have never had a sign of it.”

“There is the proof.”

“When it might have been shown again and again!”

“The greater proof!”

“Why did he not speak when he was privileged?—­strangely, but privileged.”

“He feared.”

“Me?”

“Feared to wound you—­and himself as well, possibly.  Men may be pardoned for thinking of themselves in these cases.”

“But why should he fear?”

“That another was dearer to you?”

“What cause had I given . . .  Ah I see!  He could fear that; suspect it!  See his opinion of me!  Can he care for such a girl?  Abuse me, Laetitia.  I should like a good round of abuse.  I need purification by fire.  What have I been in this house?  I have a sense of whirling through it like a madwoman.  And to be loved, after it all!—­No! we must be hearing a tale of an antiquary prizing a battered relic of the battle-field that no one else would look at.  To be loved, I see, is to feel our littleness, hollowness—­feel shame.  We come out in all our spots.  Never to have given me one sign, when a lover would have been so tempted!  Let me be incredulous, my own dear Laetitia.  Because he is a man of honour, you would say!  But are you unconscious of the torture you inflict?  For if I am—­you say it—­loved by this gentleman, what an object it is he loves—­that has gone clamouring about more immodestly than women will bear to hear of, and she herself to think of!  Oh, I have seen my own heart.  It is a frightful spectre.  I have seen a weakness in me that would have carried me anywhere.  And truly I shall be charitable to women—­I have gained that.  But loved! by Vernon Whitford!  The miserable little me to be taken up and loved after tearing myself to pieces!  Have you been simply speculating?  You have no positive knowledge of it!  Why do you kiss me?”