Your most sincere friend,

   And I may say admirer,—­[Oh, John Eames!]

   John Eames.

CHAPTER XV

The Last Day

Last days are wretched days; and so are last moments wretched moments.  It is not the fact that the parting is coming which makes these days and moments so wretched, but the feeling that something special is expected from them, which something they always fail to produce.  Spasmodic periods of pleasure, of affection, or even of study, seldom fail of disappointment when premeditated.  When last days are coming, they should be allowed to come and to glide away without special notice or mention.  And as for last moments, there should be none such.  Let them ever be ended, even before their presence has been acknowledged.

But Lily Dale had not yet been taught these lessons by her world’s experience, and she expected that this sweetest cup of which she had ever drank should go on being sweet—­sweeter and still sweeter—­as long as she could press it to her lips.  How the dregs had come to mix themselves with the last drops we have already seen; and on that same day,—­on the Monday evening,—­the bitter task still remained; for Crosbie, as they walked about through the gardens in the evening, found other subjects on which he thought it necessary to give her sundry hints, intended for her edification, which came to her with much of the savour of a lecture.  A girl, when she is thoroughly in love, as surely was the case with Lily, likes to receive hints as to her future life from the man to whom she is devoted; but she would, I think, prefer that such hints should be short, and that the lesson should be implied rather than declared;—­that they should, in fact, be hints and not lectures.  Crosbie, who was a man of tact, who understood the world and had been dealing with women for many years, no doubt understood all this as well as we do.  But he had come to entertain a notion that he was an injured man, that he was giving very much more than was to be given to him, and that therefore he was entitled to take liberties which might not fairly be within the reach of another lover.  My reader will say that in all this he was ungenerous.  Well; he was ungenerous.  I do not know that I have ever said that much generosity was to be expected from him.  He had some principles of right and wrong under the guidance of which it may perhaps be hoped that he will not go utterly astray; but his past life had not been of a nature to make him unselfish.  He was ungenerous, and Lily felt it, though she would not acknowledge it even to herself.  She had been very open with him,—­acknowledging the depth of her love for him; telling him that he was now all in all to her; that life without his love would be impossible to her:  and in a certain way he took advantage of these strong avowals, treating her as though she were a creature utterly in his power;—­as indeed she was.