After that things were different between them.  The next day and the day after Philip showed himself an eager lover.  He was deliciously flattered to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in love with him:  she told him so in English, and she told him so in French.  She paid him compliments.  No one had ever informed him before that his eyes were charming and that he had a sensual mouth.  He had never bothered much about his personal appearance, but now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with satisfaction.  When he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the passion that seemed to thrill her soul.  He kissed her a good deal, for he found it easier to do that than to say the things he instinctively felt she expected of him.  It still made him feel a fool to say he worshipped her.  He wished there were someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would willingly have discussed minute points of his conduct.  Sometimes she said things that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled.  He wished Hayward had been there so that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had better do next.  He could not make up his mind whether he ought to rush things or let them take their time.  There were only three weeks more.

“I can’t bear to think of that,” she said.  “It breaks my heart.  And then perhaps we shall never see one another again.”

“If you cared for me at all, you wouldn’t be so unkind to me,” he whispered.

“Oh, why can’t you be content to let it go on as it is?  Men are always the same.  They’re never satisfied.”

And when he pressed her, she said: 

“But don’t you see it’s impossible.  How can we here?”

He proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have anything to do with them.

“I daren’t take the risk.  It would be too dreadful if your aunt found out.”

A day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant.

“Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening and offered to stay at home and look after the house, Aunt Louisa would go to church.”

Generally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening in order to allow Mary Ann to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of attending evensong.

Philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change in his views on Christianity which had occurred in Germany; they could not be expected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to church quietly.  But he only went in the morning.  He regarded this as a graceful concession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second time as an adequate assertion of free thought.

When he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a moment, then shook her head.

“No, I won’t,” she said.

But on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip.  “I don’t think I’ll come to church this evening,” she said suddenly.  “I’ve really got a dreadful headache.”