The people all walk in lines in England.  Not here, Nevil!  They are good people, I am sure; and it is your country:  but their faces chill me, their voices grate; I should never understand them; they would be to me like their fogs eternally; and I to them?  O me! it would be like hearing sentence in the dampness of the shroud perpetually.  Again I say I do not doubt that they are very good:  they claim to be; they judge others; they may know how to make themselves happy in their climate; it is common to most creatures to do so, or to imagine it.  Nevil! not England!’

Truly ‘the mad commander and his French marquise’ of the Bevisham Election ballad would make a pretty figure in England!

His friends of his own class would be mouthing it.  The story would be a dogging shadow of his public life, and, quite as bad, a reflection on his party.  He heard the yelping tongues of the cynics.  He saw the consternation and grief of his old Bevisham hero, his leader and his teacher.

‘Florence,’ he said, musing on the prospect of exile and idleness:  ‘there’s a kind of society to be had in Florence.’

Renee asked him if he cared so much for society.

He replied that women must have it, just as men must have exercise.

‘Old women, Nevil; intriguers, tattlers.’

‘Young women, Renee.’

She signified no.

He shook the head of superior knowledge paternally.

Her instinct of comedy set a dimple faintly working in her cheek.

‘Not if they love, Nevil.’

‘At least,’ said he, ’a man does not like to see the woman he loves banished by society and browbeaten.’

‘Putting me aside, do you care for it, Nevil?’

‘Personally not a jot.’

‘I am convinced of that,’ said Renee.

She spoke suspiciously sweetly, appearing perfect candour.

The change in him was perceptible to her.  The nature of the change was unfathomable.

She tried her wits at the riddle.  But though she could be an actress before him with little difficulty, the torment of her situation roused the fever within her at a bare effort to think acutely.  Scarlet suffused her face:  her brain whirled.

’Remember, dearest, I have but offered myself:  you have your choice.  I can pass on.  Yes, I know well I speak to Nevil Beauchamp; you have drilled me to trust you and your word as a soldier trusts to his officer —­once a faint-hearted soldier!  I need not remind you:  fronting the enemy now, in hard truth.  But I want your whole heart to decide.  Give me no silly, compassion!  Would it have been better to me to have written to you?  If I had written I should have clipped my glorious impulse, brought myself down to earth with my own arrow.  I did not write, for I believed in you.’

So firm had been her faith in him that her visions of him on the passage to England had resolved all to one flash of blood-warm welcome awaiting her:  and it says much for her natural generosity that the savage delicacy of a woman placed as she now was, did not take a mortal hurt from the apparent voidness of this home of his bosom.  The passionate gladness of the lover was wanting:  the chivalrous valiancy of manful joy.