If it had not been for the thing at the back of her head, he would have done it now.  Nothing but that gave him courage to abstain.  It grew bigger and bigger, more shapeless, monstrous, absurd, and abominable, as he looked at it.  Nothing should force upon him the necessity of assisting to carry such an abortion through the world.  ’One ought to sacrifice everything to friendship,’ said Mr Gibson, ’except self-respect.’

He meant nothing personal.  Something special, in the way of an opinion, was expected of him; and, therefore, he had striven to say something special.  But she was in tears in a moment.  ‘Oh, Mr Gibson,’ she exclaimed; ‘oh, Mr Gibson!’

‘What is the matter, Miss French?’

‘Have I lost your respect?  Is it that that you mean?’

‘Certainly not, Miss French.’

’Do not call me Miss French, or I shall be sure that you condemn me.  Miss French sounds so very cold.  You used to call me Bella.’  That was quite true; but it was long ago, thought Mr Gibson, before the monster had been attached.  ‘Will you not call me Bella now?’

He thought that he had rather not; and yet, how was he to avoid it?  On a sudden he became very crafty.  Had it not been for the sharpness of his mother-wit, he would certainly have been landed at that moment.  ’As you truly observed just now,’ he said, ’the tongues of people are so malignant.  There are little birds that hear everything.’

‘I don’t care what the little birds hear,’ said Miss French, through her tears.  ’I am a very unhappy girl—­I know that; and I don’t care what anybody says.  It is nothing to me what anybody says.  I know what I feel.’  At this moment there was some dash of truth about her.  The fish was so very heavy on hand that, do what she would, she could not land him.  Her hopes before this had been very low, hopes that had once been high; but they had been depressed gradually; and, in the slow, dull routine of her daily life, she had learned to bear disappointment by degrees, without sign of outward suffering, without consciousness of acute pain.  The task of her life had been weary, and the wished-for goal was ever becoming more and more distant; but there had been still a chance, and she had fallen away into a lethargy of lessening expectation, from which joy, indeed, had been banished, but in which there had been nothing of agony.  Then had come upon the whole house at Heavitree the great Stanbury peril, and, arising out of that, had sprung new hopes to Arabella, which made her again capable of all the miseries of a foiled ambition.  She could again be patient, if patience might be of any service; but in such a condition an eternity of patience is simply suicidal.  She was willing to work hard, but how could she work harder than she had worked.  Poor young woman perishing beneath an incubus which a false idea of fashion had imposed on her!

‘I hope I have said nothing that makes you unhappy,’ pleaded Mr Gibson.  ‘I’m sure I haven’t meant it.’