The sharp intelligence fronting him understood, that this compassionate ejaculation was the point where she, too, must cry halt.  He had, however—­still under tuition, perhaps—­withdrawn his voice from the pursuit of her; and so she in gratitude silenced her critical mind beneath a smooth conceit of her having led him two steps to a broader tolerance.  Susceptible as she was, she did not influence him without being affected herself in other things than her vanity:  his prudishness affected her.  Only when her heart flamed did she disdain that real haven of refuge, with its visionary mount of superiority, offered by Society to its effect, in the habit of ignoring the sins it fosters under cloak;—­not less than did the naked barbaric time, and far more to the vitiation of the soul.  He fancied he was moulding her; therefore winning her.  It followed, that he had the lover’s desire for assurance of exclusive possession; and reflecting, that he had greatly pardoned, he grew exacting.  He mentioned his objections to some of Mr. Dartrey Fenellan’s ideas.

Nesta replied:  ‘I have this morning had two letters to make me happy.’

A provoking evasion.  He would rather have seen antagonism bridle and stiffen her figure.  ‘Is one of them from that gentleman?’

’One is from my dear friend Louise de Seilles.  She comes to me early next month.’

‘The other?’

‘The other is also from a friend.’

‘A dear friend?’

‘Not so dear.  Her letter gives me happiness.’

‘She writes—­not from France:  from . . .? you tempt me to guess.’

’She writes to tell me, that Mr. Dartrey Fenellan has helped her in a way to make her eternally thankful.’

‘The place she writes from is . . . ?’

The drag of his lips betrayed his enlightenment insisted on doubting.  He demanded assurance.

‘It matters in no degree,’ she said.

Dudley ‘thought himself excusable for inquiring.’

She bowed gently.

The stings and scorpions and degrading itches of this nest of wealthy Bohemians enraged him.

’Are you—­I beg to ask—­are you still:—­I can hardly think it—­Nesta!—­I surely have a claim to advise:—­it cannot be with your mother’s consent:—­in communication, in correspondence with . . . ?’

Again she bowed her head; saying:  ‘It is true.’

‘With that person?’

He could not but look the withering disgust of the modern world in a conservative gentleman who has been lured to go with it a little way, only to be bitten.  ‘I decline to believe it,’ he said with forcible sound.

‘She is married,’ was the rather shameless, exasperating answer.

‘Married or not!’ he cried, and murmured:  ’I have borne—.  These may be Mr. Dartrey Fenellan’s ideas; they are not mine.  I have—­Something at least is due to me:  Ask any lady:—­there are clergymen, I know, clergymen who are for uplifting—­quite right, but not associating:—­to call one of them a friend!  Ask any lady, any!  Your mother . . .’