Mr. Whitford avoided her very much.  He came to Upton Park on a visit to her father, and she was not particularly sorry that she saw him only at table.  He treated her by fits to a level scrutiny of deep-set eyes unpleasantly penetrating.  She had liked his eyes.  They became unbearable; they dwelt in the memory as if they had left a phosphorescent line.  She had been taken by playmate boys in her infancy to peep into hedge-leaves, where the mother-bird brooded on the nest; and the eyes of the bird in that marvellous dark thickset home, had sent her away with worlds of fancy.  Mr. Whitford’s gaze revived her susceptibility, but not the old happy wondering.  She was glad of his absence, after a certain hour that she passed with Willoughby, a wretched hour to remember.  Mr. Whitford had left, and Willoughby came, bringing bad news of his mother’s health.  Lady Patterne was fast failing.  Her son spoke of the loss she would be to him; he spoke of the dreadfulness of death.  He alluded to his own death to come carelessly, with a philosophical air.

“All of us must go! our time is short.”

“Very,” she assented.

It sounded like want of feeling.

“If you lose me, Clara!”

“But you are strong, Willoughby.”

“I may be cut off to-morrow.”

“Do not talk in such a manner.”

“It is as well that it should be faced.”

“I cannot see what purpose it serves.”

“Should you lose me, my love!”

“Willoughby!”

“Oh, the bitter pang of leaving you!”

“Dear Willoughby, you are distressed; your mother may recover; let us hope she will; I will help to nurse her; I have offered, you know; I am ready, most anxious.  I believe I am a good nurse.”

“It is this belief—­that one does not die with death!”

“That is our comfort.”

“When we love?”

“Does it not promise that we meet again?”

“To walk the world and see you perhaps—­with another!”

“See me?—­Where?  Here?”

“Wedded . . . to another.  You! my bride; whom I call mine; and you are!  You would be still—­in that horror!  But all things are possible; women are women; they swim in infidelity, from wave to wave!  I know them.”

“Willoughby, do not torment yourself and me, I beg you.”

He meditated profoundly, and asked her:  “Could you be such a saint among women?”

“I think I am a more than usually childish girl.”

“Not to forget me?”

“Oh! no.”

“Still to be mine?”

“I am yours.”

“To plight yourself?”

“It is done.”

“Be mine beyond death?”

“Married is married, I think.”