“But we must positively write and tell his father,” said Lady Blandish.

The wise youth did not see why they should exaggerate a trifle.  The lady said she would have an interview with Richard, and then write, as it was her duty to do.  Adrian shrugged, and was for going into the scientific explanation of Richard’s conduct, in which the lady had to discourage him.

“Poor boy!” she sighed.  “I am really sorry for him.  I hope he will not feel it too strongly.  They feel strongly, father and son.”

“And select wisely,” Adrian added.

“That’s another thing,” said Lady Blandish.

Their talk was then of the dulness of neighbouring county people, about whom, it seemed, there was little or no scandal afloat:  of the lady’s loss of the season in town, which she professed not to regret, though she complained of her general weariness:  of whether Mr. Morton of Poer Hall would propose to Mrs. Doria, and of the probable despair of the hapless curate of Lobourne; and other gossip, partly in French.

They rounded the lake, and got upon the road through the park to Lobourne.  The moon had risen.  The atmosphere was warm and pleasant.

“Quite a lover’s night,” said Lady Blandish.

“And I, who have none to love pity me!” The wise youth attempted a sigh.

“And never will have,” said Lady Blandish, curtly.  “You buy your loves.”

Adrian protested.  However, he did not plead verbally against the impeachment, though the lady’s decisive insight astonished him.  He began to respect her, relishing her exquisite contempt, and he reflected that widows could be terrible creatures.

He had hoped to be a little sentimental with Lady Blandish, knowing her romantic.  This mixture of the harshest common sense and an air of “I know you men,” with romance and refined temperament, subdued the wise youth more than a positive accusation supported by witnesses would have done.  He looked at the lady.  Her face was raised to the moon.  She knew nothing—­she had simply spoken from the fulness of her human knowledge, and had forgotten her words.  Perhaps, after all, her admiration, or whatever feeling it was, for the baronet, was sincere, and really the longing for a virtuous man.  Perhaps she had tried the opposite set pretty much.  Adrian shrugged.  Whenever the wise youth encountered a mental difficulty he instinctively lifted his shoulders to equal altitudes, to show that he had no doubt there was a balance in the case—­ plenty to be said on both sides, which was the same to him as a definite solution.

At their tryst in the wood, abutting on Raynham Park, wrapped in themselves, piped to by tireless Love, Richard and Lucy sat, toying with eternal moments.  How they seem as if they would never end!  What mere sparks they are when they have died out!  And how in the distance of time they revive, and extend, and glow, and make us think them full the half, and the best of the fire, of our lives!