difficulty was peculiar to sweet natures that have no great warmth of passion; it can only be indicated.  Like others of the kind, it is traceable to the most delicate of sentiments, and to the flattest:—­for Mr. Blackburn’s Tuckham’s figure was (she thought of it with no personal objection) not of the graceful order, neither cavalierly nor kingly:  and imagining himself to say, ’I am engaged,’ and he suddenly appearing on the field, Cecilia’s whole mind was shocked in so marked a way did he contrast with Beauchamp.

This was the effect of Beauchamp’s latest words on her.  He had disarmed her anger.

‘We must have a walk to-day,’ he said commandingly, but it had stolen into him that he and she were not walking on the same bank of the river, though they were side by side:  a chill water ran between them.  As in other days, there hung her hand:  but not to be taken.  Incredible as it was, the icy sense of his having lost her benumbed him.  Her beautiful face and beautiful tall figure, so familiar to him that they were like a possession, protested in his favour while they snatched her from him all the distance of the words ‘too late.’

‘Will you not give me one half-hour?’

‘I am engaged,’ Cecilia plunged and extricated herself, ’I am engaged to walk with Mr. Austin and papa.’

Beauchamp tossed his head.  Something induced him to speak of Mr. Tuckham.  ’The colonel has discovered his Tory young man!  It’s an object as incomprehensible to me as a Tory working-man.  I suppose I must take it that they exist.  As for Blackburn Tuckham, I have nothing against him.  He’s an honourable fellow enough, and would govern Great Britain as men of that rich middle-class rule their wives—­with a strict regard for ostensible humanity and what the law allows them.  His manners have improved.  Your cousin Mary seems to like him:  it struck me when I saw them together.  Cecilia! one half-hour!  You refuse me:  you have not heard me.  You will not say too late.’

’Nevil, I have said it finally.  I have no longer the right to conceive it unsaid.’

’So we speak!  It’s the language of indolence, temper, faint hearts.  “Too late” has no meaning.  Turn back with me to the park.  I offer you my whole heart; I love you.  There’s no woman living who could be to me the wife you would be.  I’m like your male nightingale that you told me of:  I must have my mate to sing to—­that is, work for and live for; and she must not delay too long.  Did I?  Pardon me if you think I did.  You have known I love you.  I have been distracted by things that kept me from thinking of myself and my wishes:  and love’s a selfish business while . . . while one has work in hand.  It’s clear I can’t do two things at a time—­make love and carry on my taskwork.  I have been idle for weeks.  I believed you were mine and wanted no lovemaking.  There’s no folly in that, if you understand me at all.  As for vanity about women, I ’ve outlived it.  In comparison