not he—­she was the sufferer, and she whipped up a sensation of wincing at the flames they fell to, and at their void of existence, committing sentimental idiocies worthy of a lovesick girl, consciously to escape the ominous thought, which her woman’s perception had sown in her, that he too chafed at a marriage no marriage:  was true in fidelity, not true through infidelity, as she had come to be.  The thought implied misery for both.  She entered a black desolation, with the prayer that he might not be involved, for his own sake:  partly also on behalf of the sustaining picture the young schoolmaster at his task, merry among his dear boys, to trim and point them body and mind for their business in the world, painted for her a weariful prospect of the life she must henceforth drag along.

Is a woman of the plain wits common to numbers ever deceived in her perception of a man’s feelings for her?  Let her first question herself whether she respects him.  If she does not, her judgement will go easily astray, intuition and observation are equally at fault, she has no key; he has charmed her blood, that is all.  But if she respects him, she cannot be deceived; respect is her embrace of a man’s character.  Aminta’s vision was clear.  She had therefore to juggle with the fact revealed, that she might keep her heart from rushing out; and the process was a disintegration of her feminine principle of docility under the world’s decrees.  At each pause of her mental activity she was hurled against the state of marriage.  Compassion for her blameless fellow in misery brought a deluge to sweep away institutions and landmarks.

But supposing the blest worst to happen, what exchange had she to bestow?  Her beauty?  She was reputed beautiful.  It had made a madman of one man; and in her poverty of endowments to be generous with, she hovered over Mr. Morsfield like a cruel vampire, for the certification that she had a much-prized gift to bestow upon his rival.

But supposing it:  she would then be no longer in the shiny garden of the flowers of wealth; and how little does beauty weigh as all aid to an active worker in the serious fighting world!  She would be a kind of potted rose-tree under his arm, of which he must eventually tire.

A very cold moment came, when it seemed that even the above supposition, in the case of a woman who has been married, is shameful to her, a sin against her lover, and should be obliterated under floods of scarlet.  For, if she has pride, she withers to think of pushing the most noble of men upon his generosity.  And, further, if he is not delicately scrupulous, is there not something wanting in him?  The very cold wave passed, leaving the sentence:  better dream of being plain friends.