They came to the fir-heights overlooking Bevisham.  Here the breezy beginning of a South-western autumnal gale tossed the ponies’ manes and made threads of Cecilia’s shorter locks of beautiful auburn by the temples and the neck, blustering the curls that streamed in a thick involution from the silken band gathering them off her uncovered clear-swept ears.

Beauchamp took an impression of her side face.  It seemed to offer him everything the world could offer of cultivated purity, intelligent beauty and attractiveness; and ‘Wilt thou?’ said the winged minute.  Peace, a good repute in the mouths of men, home, and a trustworthy woman for mate, an ideal English lady, the rarest growth of our country, and friends and fair esteem, were offered.  Last night he had waltzed with her, and the manner of this tall graceful girl in submitting to the union of the measure and reserving her individual distinction, had exquisitely flattered his taste, giving him an auspicious image of her in partnership, through the uses of life.

He looked ahead at the low dead-blue cloud swinging from across channel.  What could be the riddle of Renee’s letter!  It chained him completely.

‘At all events, I shall not be away longer than three days,’ he said; paused, eyed Cecilia’s profile, and added, ‘Do we differ so much?’

‘It may not be so much as we think,’ said she.

‘But if we do!’

‘Then, Nevil, there is a difference between us.’

‘But if we keep our lips closed?’

‘We should have to shut our eyes as well!’

A lovely melting image of her stole over him; all the warmer for her unwittingness in producing it:  and it awakened a tenderness toward the simple speaker.

Cecilia’s delicate breeding saved her from running on figuratively.  She continued:  ’Intellectual differences do not cause wounds, except when very unintellectual sentiments are behind them:—­my conceit, or your impatience, Nevil?  “Noi veggiam come quei, che ha mala luce.” . . .  I can confess my sight to be imperfect:  but will you ever do so?’

Her musical voice in Italian charmed his hearing.

‘What poet was that you quoted?’

‘The wisest:  Dante.’

‘Dr. Shrapnel’s favourite!  I must try to read him.’

‘He reads Dante?’ Cecilia threw a stress on the august name; and it was manifest that she cared not for the answer.

Contemptuous exclusiveness could not go farther.

‘He is a man of cultivation,’ Beauchamp said cursorily, trying to avoid dissension, but in vain.  ’I wish I were half as well instructed, and the world half as charitable as he!—­You ask me if I shall admit my sight to be imperfect.  Yes; when you prove to me that priests and landlords are willing to do their duty by the people in preference to their churches and their property:  but will you ever shake off prejudice?’

Here was opposition sounding again.  Cecilia mentally reproached Dr. Shrapnel for it.