kiss a lip, to clasp a waist, to hear even the low voice of the vanquished, confessing loved one as she hides her blushing cheek upon your shoulder—­what is it all but to have reached the once mysterious valley of your far-off mountain, and to have found that it is as other valleys, rocks and stones, with a little grass, and a thin stream of running water?  But beyond that pressing of the hand, and that kissing of the lips, beyond that short-lived pressure of the plumage which is common to birds and men, what could love do beyond that?  There were children with dirty faces and household bills, and a wife, who must, perhaps, always darn the stockings and be sometimes cross.  Was love to lead only to this, a dull life, with a woman who had lost the beauty from her cheeks, and the gloss from her hair, and the music from her voice, and the fire from her eye and the grace from her step, and whose waist an arm should no longer be able to span?  Did the love of the poets lead to that, and that only?  Then, through the cloud of smoke, there came upon him some dim idea of self-abnegation that the mysterious valley among the mountains, the far-off prospect of which was so charming to him, which made the poetry of his life, was, in fact, the capacity of caring more for other human beings than for himself.  The beauty of it all was not so much in the thing loved, as in the loving.  ‘Were she a cripple, hunchbacked, eyeless’ he said to, himself, ‘it might be the same.  Only she must be a woman.’  Then he blew off a great cloud of smoke, and went into bed lost amid poetry, philosophy, love, and tobacco.

It had been arranged overnight that he was to start the next morning at half-past seven, and Priscilla had promised to give him his breakfast before he went.  Priscilla, of course, kept her word.  She was one of those women who would take a grim pleasure in coming down to make the tea at any possible hour, at five, at four, if it were needed, and who would never want to go to bed again when the ceremony was performed.  But when Nora made her appearance—­Nora, who had been dainty—­both Priscilla and Hugh were surprised.  They could not say why she was there nor could Nora tell herself.  She had not forgiven him.  She had no thought of being gentle and loving to him.  She declared to herself that she had no wish of saying good-bye to him once again.  But yet she was in the room, waiting for him, when he came down to his breakfast.  She had been unable to sleep, and had reasoned with herself as to the absurdity of lying in bed awake, when she preferred to be up and out of the house.  It was true that she had not been out of her bed at seven any morning since she had been at Nuncombe Putney; but that was no reason why she should not be more active on this special morning.  There was a noise in the house, and she never could sleep when there was a noise.  She was quite sure that she was not going down because she wished to see Hugh Stanbury, but she was equally sure that it would be a disgrace